


Cruel and Unusual Punishment

by Fier



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Bondage, F/M, Fox Mulder Angst, Fox Mulder Torture, Hurt Fox Mulder, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shapeshifting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fier/pseuds/Fier
Summary: Shapeshifters, drugs and abduction. All in a day's work for Mulder and Scully.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Cruel and Unusual Punishment (Cruel and Unusual Punishment Series)** by _P. C. Rasmussen_
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : The characters of "The X-Files" and the rights belong to FOX network, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Chris Carter and not to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little while. 
> 
> Questions, comments, praise, flames, criticizm, etc. are very welcome at piacathrin@rasmussen.mail.dk. I'd like to know what you guys think of this. Whether you like it or not. Let me know. I live on feedback. 
> 
> **Summary** : This is Mulder-torture galore. Nothing for those with sensitive nerves. Definitely an NC-17 for unusual cruelty toward our fav Fed and adult situations, namely a rape of kinds. If you don't like that, don't read it. Everybody else, please send me comments on this one. 
> 
> **Author's note** : This story is extreme in its depiction of unsavory situations. There's torture, m/f rape (and it's not the woman getting raped). Way back when I wrote this, I belonged to a forum called Mulder Torture and this is basically what this story is about. If you don't like to read stories with expressive depiction of such situations, go read something else.

**12.15 p.m.  
December 15  
Basement office  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

Special Agent Fox Mulder was sitting on his chair behind his desk, staring ahead of himself. Things had finally worked out okay. Scully was doing better and was back to work. Skinner had lightened up a bit after Blevins had been indicted and subsequently killed. And things in general seemed to go much more smoothly. If only he could convince his sister to see him. If only he could find her again. He heaved a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh.

Scully looked up from her paper work and glanced over at him. "You okay?"

"What?" he asked at the sound of her voice. "Oh, yeah. Just a little tired," he then said with a smile.

She returned it in her own serene manner. "Why don't you go home and get some rest, then? I think you've deserved it."

That made him chuckle. "Thanks, mommy." Stretching and finding himself aching with fatigue, he added a nod to that. "I think I'll do that. I'm worn thin." Scully's head tilted to one side and the smile made him shiver inwardly. She was so beautiful. He knew he felt like that because he had been so very close to losing her. He had basically been able to see her wasting away and it had torn at his heart to see her like that.

"You look wasted. Go home. That's an order," she told him.

He got out of his chair with a slight effort and nodded. He needed some sleep. She was right about that. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't stay too late," he said, grabbed his coat and shrugged into it.

"I won't. You just get some sleep. I expect you to be a whole lot more chipper tomorrow. Okay?" Scully eyed her partner in a new light ... well ... in a brighter light, than before. He had been willing to go out on the ledge for her. He was willing to die for her. She knew that. He would compromise himself; put himself in a situation he could not handle just to save her. And the realization of this had made her hold him in higher regard than ever. Their friendship was second to none. And briefly she wondered if it could become more. But thoughts like that were immoral.

He stopped next to her chair and put a hand on her shoulder. "I promise. I'll be my old self tomorrow." With those words, he took off.

* * *

**07.30 p.m.  
Mulder's residence  
Apartment 42  
2630 Hegal Place  
Alexandria**

Unlike what he had believed when he left the office, he was able to sleep. He dropped down on his bed after shedding most of his clothes except for his boxer shorts and closed his eyes and moments later he was out cold. He slept uneasily, dreaming dreams of old events, things that had been painful and humiliating to him. Things he had experienced at the hands of one English woman he didn't like to think of too much.

After a long time, he woke with a start, blinking up at the ceiling above him. He felt a little more rested, but also odd. At first, his mind still drowsy, he couldn't quite figure out why. Then there was a rattle and a tug when he tried to move his right hand and it hit him like a ton of bricks. He was handcuffed to the headboard of his own bed.

"What the ... " he mumbled, looking first at his right wrist then his left, wondering what he had missed here. Then he looked around the bedroom. Nothing else seemed out of order and there was nobody in the room with him. Frowning, he tried to pull himself backward to sit up but found that his feet were somehow restrained as well. This was starting to be a little less than funny. He pulled at the restraint around his left foot and heard a rattle. How he could not have heard or felt these chains being applied to him was a mystery. He usually slept very lightly and awoke at the smallest sound.

Again his eyes drifted toward the open door and the dark hallway beyond while his mind frantically tried to come up with an explanation for this situation. It reminded him of things he didn't want to remember. He again tugged at his right hand, testing the strength of both the cuff and the headboard, but both were unrelenting. A million options ran through his mind and in that connection, the faces of as many people paraded before his inner eye. Who could have done this to him? And why?

"Ah, you're awake."

The voice was nothing but a low purr, but he would recognize it anywhere. His head snapped around and he stared at his captor, his expression displaying all the disbelief in the world. This couldn't be. He shook his head, too dumb-founded to say anything at all. This wasn't right. Not at all.

Standing there in the open door was Dana Scully, displaying a side of herself he had never, ever seen before. And for that matter, hadn't believed she possessed, either. She was dressed in a black velvet body stocking which accentuated her pale complexion graciously along with elbow-long, black silk-gloves which clung to her arms as if they were painted on. And that was all she was wearing. Her hair was wild, teased up to become a mane around her head and her face was heavily painted. Ruby lipstick and dark-blue eye shadow along with eyeliner to underline the deepness of her eyes.

Under normal circumstances he would have been turned on by this look like nothing before. This was a version of a dream come true. But the thought that this wasn't like Scully was prominent in his mind. And the look in her eyes scared him. It was feral, hungry and he had a pretty good idea what she was hungry for. "Scully?" he finally managed.

Pursing her lips, she came closer, moving like a hungry cat stalking a mouse. Her hips swayed, her head was shoved forward a bit, and her black-gloved hands slid restlessly up and down her sides, caressing herself. "Yes, Fox. It's Scully," she purred, smiling almost viciously.

He stared at her, the majority of his consciousness hoping he would wake up any second now. This had to be a twisted dream. A fantasy, of course, but still twisted. He had never thought of his partner this way. That she would be into something that was so demeaning to him as bondage. Shaking his head, he stared at her. "What's going on here, Dana?" he almost whispered.

She reached the bed and started down the length of it, heading toward the foot end. And all the while her eyes were running over his body, almost touchable in their intensity. "What do you think is going on here, Fox?" she replied, her eyes briefly meeting his before her hungry gaze once again started wandering down his body.

He swallowed hard. His throat had gone dry. This was something that Phoebe Greene could have come up with. He would suspect other women of this, too. But not Dana Scully. Finally getting a grip on his surprise, he tried to work up a temper. "I'm not sure what this is about, Dana, but I don't like it, okay? Joke's over," he told her, managing to force an edge to his voice. He still hadn't regained his composure completely.

She stopped at the middle of the foot end of the bed, looking up at him with a lascivious smile. "What joke's that, Fox?" she purred. "This is no joke. This is something I've wanted to do for a long time."

Now he was getting scared. If he read this right, this wasn't just bondage. And he had a pretty good sense of things like that after having had the dubious pleasure of Phoebe Greene's company in bed. She had been sadistic to put it mildly. "Dana, cut it out," he snapped. "I'm not into this thing, okay? I don't like it. And this isn't you."

"Isn't it?" She eased forward, her hands on the bed spread between his feet, her tongue coming out to brush her lips. "What about all those videos you always watch? Don't you want to live them? Don't you want to be ... carefree for just one night?"

Her right hand slipped up on his left leg just above the shackle that held it in place and he jerked at the sensation of the silk on his skin. "This is not the kind of thing I watch," he snapped. He was more frightened than angry now. This wasn't going to be an easy one to get out of and the closer she got, the less likely it was that she would back off. Her hand slid up his shin to his knee, her left hand doing the same to his right leg. "Dana, stop it. This isn't funny." He knew what this would do to him. He also knew how he would feel during and after. And he knew how he would feel in the morning. The first time Phoebe had put him through this, it had taken him a week to be able to face others again. He had been certain that others could tell what they had done and he was utterly ashamed of it. Ashamed and bruised. It had been more painful than pleasant and he certainly wasn't into painful sex.

Her hands climbed higher, coming to rest at the edge of his boxer shorts. Every single inch of muscle in his thighs was tight and his breath was rapid and superficial in presentiment of what she had in mind for him. "Oh, but it is funny," she replied in a deep purr. She eased forward, letting her hands slip up over his shorts to his stomach. "Relax and enjoy it, Fox. You may never have the chance again," she added, leaned down and sank her teeth into the tender skin of his stomach. And it was no nip.

He yelped in pain and surprise, twisting to try and get away from her, but her teeth's vice-like grip on his skin made him stop the attempt. She wasn't biting hard enough to break the skin, but definitely hard enough to hurt him. "There's nothing to enjoy about this. Now, stop it, God damn it," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Her teeth released his skin again and she raised her head to look at him. There was nothing relenting in her eyes. Nothing of the tenderness and warmth he had become accustomed to. "Stop it?" she asked. "I haven't even begun yet." To prove it, she lunged forward, coming face to face with him, one knee on either side of his hip. "You know, I thought you'd be a whole lot more into this, Fox. You disappoint me," she told him and rocked back a bit. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue darted over her teeth while she eyed a potential target on his body. Then she eased down over his chest, painfully slow, until her lips were hovering right over his right nipple.

He knew what she had in mind and moved, trying to get away from her, knowing full well that he couldn't. But she anticipated every move he made and followed him. When he tried to move again, she closed her teeth around the nipple, biting down hard, drawing another yelp of pain from him. The tip of her tongue teased the nipple for a second, then she released it and clamped down on his left nipple. He yelped again, sweat breaking out all over his body.

"Dana, please. Don't do this," he begged, hoping to appease her in some way by showing her his weak side. The fear he felt stemmed solely from his utter surprise at the situation. He had never ever thought that she would put him through something like this. Not Scully. But here she was, displaying every trade he had come to despise in a woman. She nipped the skin right below his left nipple, causing him to jerk. "Please," he begged more insistently.

"Don't be such a wimp, Fox," she hissed against his skin. Her right hand snapped up to grab his chin and she held it firmly as she rose up to stare down at him. "I thought you had a little more spunk that this. A little more guts. But look at you now. You're begging. That's not very becoming."

He stared up into those blue, blue eyes, afraid and angry and confused all at once. This couldn't be happening. It was literally a rape. He could only hope that she wasn't going to go that far. But by the look in her eyes he knew she would. And that she would make him suffer every step of the way. Her vice-like grip on his chin ceased when she released him again. His fear of the next step she would take was heavily underlined when her right hand suddenly grabbed his crotch and squeezed the life out of him. And he couldn't even scream properly because she had clapped her left hand over his mouth. He writhed, trying to get away from the offending hand, aware only of the pulsing pain that was spreading through his abdomen.

She held on for a moment, watching his face twist in pain, tears springing to his eyes and oozing out between tightly-shut lids, before releasing him again. He gasped for the breath that the pain had stolen, wishing he could die right then. At least he wouldn't have to see this through. Or maybe he could pass out? That would be a great alternative. If he was unresponsive, maybe she would leave him alone.

A little chuckle escaped her as she sat down on his thighs, her hands almost lovingly caressing his abdomen. "I think I'll have to do something about this vocalization of your pleasure. We can't have the neighbors interrupting us, can we?" she said, reached into the front of her body stocking and pulled out two long pieces of cotton cloth, diminishing her breast size in the process.

Shaking his head, he stared at her as she bundled one of them up and leaned forward. "No," he begged her. "Please, Dana. Don't do this to me."

And that was the last he was able to say because she shoved the bundled-up piece of cloth into his mouth, forcing it in with a strength he wouldn't have thought she had. He gagged, almost chocking on it for a second, and that gave her the opportunity to tie the other one around his head, tying it hard behind his head.

Pleased with her handiwork, she leaned back again. "There," she said with a nasty little smile. "That should keep you quiet."

To compensate his loss of speech, he started thrashing. He tried to throw her off, tried to perhaps get her to fall to the floor so she would be angry enough to leave. He didn't care who found him like this. As long as this didn't go on. But any move he made was anticipated by her and she let him ride it out until he gave up.

Patting his stomach, she smiled. "Are you done now?" Not waiting for a reply, she peeled one glove off, exposing what looked like artificial nails. And he knew how they could hurt. Especially if she had glued them on right. "One more stunt like this and they can pick your intestines off the floor tomorrow," she told him good-naturedly. To prove her point, she jabbed four razor-sharp nails into his chest, making him crumble up as much as the restraints allowed. "Don't even think about it, pretty boy," she hissed and racked her nails over his chest, leaving bleeding gashes behind. When that didn't stop his attempts to protect himself, her hand found his crotch again and dug nails into his balls. He screamed into the gag, the pain so nauseating he almost lost his dinner and, considering the gag, that would have been a catastrophe. "No more thrashing, okay?" she cooed, releasing his crotch again.

He was definitely on the verge of tears. Not so much because of the pain. He had been there before and he had hated it. Phoebe Greene, whom he for some unexplainable reason could not resist even now, had taken him to Hell and back again. She had enjoyed every step of it. He had been embarrassed and in pain every step of the way. This was a one-way street. Both could not enjoy it. And he certainly didn't enjoy it. It didn't turn him on at all. On the contrary, he felt sick and low and lousy because of it.

To have to relieve this had been one of his nightmares. But in his nightmares it had always been Phoebe doing this to him. The few times he had allowed his mind to wander toward his partner, they had been engulfed in sensual and soft love-making. Not this painful torture that Phoebe had called the best form of sex. Of course, it was only the best when she could demolish her partner's mental state and make it hard for him to walk the day after. There had been no vice-versa. But the pain was definitely not what made him want to cry although it was hard enough to bear. It was that his soft fantasies of Dana had been ripped to shreds by this devastating turn of events.

She grabbed the edge of his boxer shorts and pulled them down. He attempted to speak, to make some kind of plea, but she was deaf to it. Her gloved left hand closed softly around his cock and caressed it with slow strokes of her thumb. "Come on. Come on," she cooed as if she were trying to lure an animal out of its den. "Make me happy."

It was with the utmost regret that he once again had to realize how little control he had over his body. His cock hardened in her hand and he was deadly afraid of the feral look in her eyes while she coaxed him to become bigger. The feelings of lust combined with the mind-shattering fear of the pain she could cause rippled through him. The fear, he knew, intensified his sexual drive, driving him toward an edge of no return. He moaned into the gag, not from lust but from fear and shame, trying to twist away from her, but her legs held him in place and he instantly stopped the attempt when she ran a nail along the underside of his cock.

Glancing up at him, she smiled approvingly. "You're learning," she told him, noting the tears now freely streaming down his face. "Oh, stop blubbering, you baby," she added coldly, her previously soft grip hardening around his cock. He moaned in pain and fear, trying hard to retain his tears without much luck. She let her index finger run down the length of his erection until she hit the base. "I said stop blubbering," she snarled and jabbed a nail deep into the soft skin there. He jerked, trying to pull away, but again her grip on his cock hardened into a vice-like hold, causing him even more pain. It took all the self-control he could muster to not pull away again. When she was happy about his ability to stay still, she released her grip and removed the nail.

His breath came in harsh little gasps around the gag and he wished so desperately that he could pass out, but knew he wouldn't. That was always the thing, wasn't it? When you really needed to pass out, you couldn't. He tried to concentrate on getting his breathing back under control, but it was hard. He was sore already and he knew she wasn't even halfway done yet.

She pushed herself backward and lowered her head down over his now straining erection. "Ah, that's what I like," she whispered, opened her mouth and almost swallowed him whole. Her tongue pressed against the back of his cock and her teeth closed over the base hard enough to make him try and crumble up. With almost savage anger, she ripped her head upward, scraping his cock all the way to the head.

The pain that caused him was excruciating, debilitating and he felt the cuffs around his wrists cut into the skin when he fought the restraints with all his might. Her teeth were clamped down on his cock and he thought he would die right there. Not even Phoebe had caused him this much pain. All his muscles cramped up, jittering with the strain of the pain, sweat rolling down his body while he cried into the gag, tears rolling down his face. He jerked violently at the cuffs holding his hands, causing the metal to dig deeper into his flesh, and all he could think of was that he wanted to die, needed to die right there and then. Just to get away from the pain. He sobbed, aware that it was increasing her anger, but unable not to.

The pain lessened after a moment where she stared at him, leaving behind a painful throb down the length of his cock. Her eyes ran over his body again, then she lowered her head again, opening her mouth. He gagged once again, knowing what she was about to do, and had to concentrate hard on not throwing up. She scrapped her teeth over him again, causing more moans of anguish. For what seemed like forever, she hurt him and coaxed him into hardening even more, the erection now extremely painful because the skin was raw and bleeding. Her renewal of the pain over and over again drove him insane, making his writhe in agony. Somewhere in the back of his head he wished he could come so she couldn't hurt him anymore, but also knew that she would probably hurt him worse if he came before she wanted him to.

Then finally, she straddled him. "Ready for some real lovin'?" she asked him, grinning viciously at his suffering.

His eyes grew wide when she grabbed his aching member and guided it home. The warm wetness of her was like salt in the wounds she had caused and he squeezed his eyes shut, biting down hard on the gag to B in every sense B ride this out. He winced every time she pressed down on him and the tight grip of her vagina on his painful erection made him want to scream again. The pain was unbearable and her constant admonishments that he wasn't to come before she told him so made him desperately clamp down on his need for the release.

His hands had found the chains of the handcuffs and he was holding onto them, trying to prevent the metal from causing any more damage to his aching and bleeding wrists. His ankles felt swollen and painful, too, and he briefly wondered if he would be able to walk the following day. He didn't think so. The greatest pain of course came from his molested cock, which was now throbbing hard inside her. She drew fire along the sides every time she shoved him home and he found he could even control his need to thrust into her. The pain took its toll on the lust he might have felt. Any enjoyment had been washed away in a red sea of pain.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he felt her starting to contract and the pressure became devastating. And this time he did scream. She hammered him home with every downward thrust and he writhed in agony beneath her, his mind not wanting to accept the unacceptable. That this was Dana doing this to him. Not Phoebe. Not anybody else. His sweet, lovable Dana was causing him this kind of agony. His mind refused to accept this and he kept his eyes shut, wanting desperately to pretend that this wasn't so. It had to be Phoebe. Only she could be this cruel.

Then he felt her hot breath on his ear. "Now you can come," she whispered hoarsely.

He let loose, knowing that it would bring release in more ways than one. He emptied his painful load into her, sobbing at the release, at the shame, at the pure and utter disbelief he felt at this situation. He would never be able to face her again.

Straightening up on top of him, she looked down at him, pleased with her handiwork. "Oh, Fox. Thank you. That was better than I had hoped," she said, causing him to look up at her with blood-shot, tear-filled eyes. She patted his face like a mother would that of a child, still smiling. "And remember. No mention of this tomorrow at work, okay? And don't act strange toward me or I'll be back tomorrow evening. And then I'll really make you writhe."

Her promise, stated in a cold, hard tone of voice, made him shiver involuntarily. She pulled off him, spilling his semen all over his pelvic area, before she slipped off the bed and padded out of the room. For a moment, he feared she was going to leave him like this, but she returned moments later with a towel, dressed in a brown suit he had seen her in before, her hair brushed back into a pony-tail, looking completely like the old Dana again. Except for the scornful expression on her formerly so pretty face.

She tossed the towel at him, pulled out a key and undid the shackles around his ankles. "Now, don't pull anything stupid, okay? I'm more fit than you are and I can easily stay all night."

He didn't dare do anything. Even when she undid the cuffs around his wrists, all he did was roll over on his side, both hands going down to cup his aching crotch.

She patted his back for a second, then got off the bed. He heard the clanging of the chains as she stashed them away, but didn't turn around to see her leave. "See you in the morning, Foxy," she said, her tone of voice as scornful as her expression had been.

He first managed to work up the courage to remove the gag when he heard the front door click shut. With a pained effort, he rolled over on his other side, protecting his cock and balls from too much movement with one hand, and slowly sat up. Every move he made was painful. His wrists were bloated and bloody and so were his ankles. Easing his feet onto the carpet, he heaved a deep breath before getting up. Nausea rippled through him, making him gag almost uncontrollably.

He managed to make it to the bathroom before he threw up. Kneeling in front of the toilet, one hand still cupping his aching crotch, he started crying again. He was angry at himself for not being able to retain the tears, but never the less he sobbed like a little kid, interrupted only when his stomach rolled too much and he vomited again. It took him half an hour to be able to get unsteadily back to his feet. His first notion had been that he needed a shower. More desperately than he had ever needed anything before. Although he knew it would hurt like hell, he had to wash some of the shame away.

The shower was a long and painful process and he felt only marginally better afterwards. His stomach was still upset and he limped back to the bedroom hunched over like an old man. Wincing, he pulled the bedspread off after positioning a bucket next to the right side of the head of the bed.

Gagging again, he slumped over the bucket, dry-heaving for a moment. He knew he needed to tend to his wrists and ankles and mostly to his cock, but he just couldn't face that right now. He hurt too much and he felt too sick to deal with it. Instead, he slipped under the covers, lying on his side, trying to get as comfortable as possible. His cock felt mostly as if someone had stepped on it with heavy work boots and it took a long time before he finally slipped into a restless, nightmare-filled sleep.

There was nobody he could call, nobody he trusted enough to call on an occasion such as this. Under normal circumstances, he would probably have called Scully. As degrading and embarrassing as this was, he would have trusted her enough to deal with this discreetly. But now he didn't trust her any further than he could throw her. And a small voice in the back of his head kept insisting that it hadn't been her. Couldn't be her. He was a good judge of character. Had basically been forced into being one by people like Phoebe. And he didn't think he could have been so much off center. Dana Scully wasn't like this. But he kept seeing her face, the lascivious look in her eyes, the joy with which she administered him pain.

This memory caused his stomach to convulse and he woke up again, gagging. He hauled himself to the edge of the bed toward the bucket and let out a cry of pain when his injured cock got squeezed between his thigh and the mattress. Whimpering, not knowing which he should tend to first, he curled up again for a second before the need to throw up once again overcame him.

* * *

**10.30 a.m.  
December 16  
Basement office  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

****

****

Dana Scully glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time, glanced up at the wall clock again to make sure it wasn't her watch that was too fast, and sighed. Okay, she had told him to go home and get some sleep, hadn't she? She nodded to herself, grabbed the receiver and dialed an internal number. The few times she had tried calling her partner had brought no result. His machine answered the call.

"Hi, Kimberly. Have you heard from agent Mulder? I can't seem to reach him and he hasn't turned up yet," Scully said once Skinner's secretary answered the call.

There was a brief, confused pause. "Uhm ... he called about half an hour ago. He's sick with the stomach flu or something and won't be coming in for a few days. He sounded really bad." Kimberly hesitated for a second, but had to voice her confusion. "I thought he'd call you right after."

"The stomach flu?" Scully asked, instantly concerned. "No, he didn't call me. He was probably not feeling up to it. Thanks. I'll call him right away."

Scully hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. Stomach flu? He had looked tired, but not sick the previous day. With a deepening frown, she grabbed the receiver again and dialed his number. It rang twice, then the receiver at the other end was finally picked up. "Mulder, it's me," she said and was answered only by silence. "Mulder?"

There was silence for a moment longer. "Yes," he confirmed, his voice barely audible.

She could virtually hear how poorly he was doing. "My God, are you all right? How bad is it?" she asked, deeply concerned.

Another patch of silence answered her. "As if you didn't know," he whispered hoarsely and hung up.

Scully held the receiver out from her ear and stared at it as if it had just slapped her. Was she imagining things or had he sounded angry with her? This didn't bode well.

Her concern for his welfare blossomed into fear as she got up and grabbed her coat. He might not want to see her right now, but she was going over there anyway. He might be in need of help.

With those thoughts, she stalked out the door, intent on finding out why her partner and friend would react this way to her.

* * *

**11.15 a.m.  
Mulder's residence  
Apartment 42  
2630 Hegal Place  
Alexandria**

Scully reached his apartment and hesitated briefly before unlocking the door. She knocked quietly while opening the door, but there was no reply. Closing the door behind her, she glanced around the quiet hallway.

"Mulder?" she called, not too loudly, and got no reply to that either. Frowning a little, she put her bag down on the floor and shrugged out of her coat.

After putting it on a hanger just inside the door, she leaned down to grab her bag and froze. There was a trail of blood on the floor. Not much, but enough to be noticed. She snapped back into an upright position and looked toward the living room. But the trail was leading to the bedroom, not the living room. Her frown deepened, her bag forgotten, as she slowly walked over to the half-closed bedroom door. "Mulder?" she tried again without result.

She carefully pushed the door open, the still-life of the bedroom unfolding before her eyes. The first thing she noticed was the bedspread lying in a heap at the foot end of the bed. The next that registered with her was that the blood trail disappeared under it. Her eyes wandered up over the bed to the curled-up figure of her partner lying with his back to the door.

"Mulder?" she tried once more as she slowly approached the bed. The sheet and the heavy blanket over it was pulled tightly around him, covering him almost completely. When she cleared the end of the bed, she stopped short to study what she could see of his face. He was pale and a light sheen of sweat covered his face. And that was all she could see.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, wondering if he had cut himself to leave such a trail of blood. "Mulder," she almost whispered, reaching a hand out to touch his face.

Just then, he stirred awake. His eyes opened and he blinked at her once. Then his eyes widened and with a gasp of fear he pulled back. From the contraction of his expression she could tell he was in pain. "Mulder, it's okay. It's me," she tried to sooth him, wondering what had brought on that reaction. She once again reached out to touch his face, to reassure him, but never got that far. His right hand lashed out from under the covers and slapped her hand away.

"Don't touch me," he croaked, trying to pull further back.

Scully was shocked and a little hurt by his reaction and it showed on her face. "Mulder," she said, trying to convey serenity and tenderness to him, but that only made his expression twist further. It took her a second to realize that it was because he felt nauseous. He suddenly reached out for the edge of the bed and hauled himself forward, whimpering as his stomach convulsed and he dry-heaved over the bucket for a second.

Scully didn't try to touch him, but her eyes were glued to his right wrist, which was bruised badly. It was bloated, black and blue, with obvious cuts on it. She leaned a little sideways and got a good look at his left wrist, which looked exactly the same. "Mulder, what happened to you?" she asked.

He eased back onto the bed, feeling weaker than ever, the only thing strong in him being the fear. He wanted to pull away from her, to get out of her reach, but couldn't move. He simply didn't have the strength for it. He considered a response to her question, a question which would have made him laugh if he hadn't felt so miserable. And all the while that little voice in the back of his head kept insisting that last night's horror had not been caused by her.

Managing to finally make his eyes focus, he looked up at her and saw nothing of the woman who had come here the night before. Nothing. And she sounded so sincere in her concern for him and her confusion in regards to his present state of health. "Where were you last night?" he croaked. He thought he knew what the answer would be, but he begged that it wouldn't be what he thought. Because he needed her help so badly.

Scully stared back at him, thinking that he had probably tried to call her for help and had not been able to reach her. "At my mother's. She called and invited me to dinner. I'm sorry I wasn't home. I had no idea . . ." she began, shaking her head, vaguely spreading her hands out.

He stared at her. Could it really be? "At your mother's?" he whispered and she nodded. He wished, he hoped that she was telling the truth. The concern and care in her eyes made a lump rise in his throat and he felt tears rise in his eyes again. It hadn't been her. Someone else who had pretended to be her. Someone who had ... He couldn't think straight. He hurt so badly he just wanted to die and he couldn't think straight. "When did you get home?"

Scully found his questions a little strange, but decided to play along. "Around one. How many times did you try to call me?" She was certain that his questions were based on that.

Mulder almost managed to laugh then. Call her? That had really been the last thing on his mind last night. Because he had thought she had been the one to put him through this. But now he couldn't understand how he could ever have thought that. He should have been able to see through it. He also knew that he so easily accepted her explanation because he was desperate for some care. Wincing, he curled up even more.

"Mulder, what happened to you?" she pressed, not at all happy about the situation. He was crying openly, obviously in pain and distressed and she could do nothing about it until he told her where he was hurt. His wrists looked bad, but the abrasions seemed to be rather superficial. It couldn't be causing him this much discomfort.

His right hand suddenly grabbed out for hers and she took it in both of hers, holding it hard. "I don't feel so good," he whispered. This was starting to be embarrassing now that the fear was ebbing away. Embarrassing like hell. He wasn't sure he could handle having to tell her what had happened. But he certainly didn't want to deal with any other doctor. This was not going to be public knowledge.

"I'm aware of that. I saw the blood on the floor, Mulder. Where are you hurt? Did you cut yourself?" she asked and was a little taken aback by the pained smile on his lips and the fact that he didn't want to look at her. For a moment, she reflected on his reaction, then it hit her what it could mean. "You don't mean . . ." she began, glancing down his curled-up, covered body. He simply nodded, not saying a word. Scully heaved a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. This was complicated. Very complicated. Mainly because she wasn't sure what this meant. If it was as serious as she got the impression of, she was baffled that he was not in a hospital. But, on the other hand, she still didn't know exactly what his injury was all about. Only that it was in a ... sensitive area. "You should be in a hospital," she said after a moment, having to voice her thoughts at least partially.

"No," he whispered sharply, his hand clutching hers hard. "No hospital. This is embarrassing enough as it is, Scully. I don't need this to be on my record."

She understood him and also realized that it was probably worse than she hoped, but better than she feared. "I'm going to get my bag. I'll take a look at it. If I feel that I can't deal with it, you have to go to the hospital, okay?"

He nodded once, making no commitment other than that.


	2. Chapter 2

**11.45 a.m.**

A million thoughts raced through her head as she hurried into the small hallway to get her bag. It was incomprehensible to her that anybody would actually want to harm Mulder. It had happened before, of course, but this was different. She didn't know yet what had happened and she could only imagine it. And what popped into her mind wasn't pleasant.

When she returned to his bedroom, he had pulled the covers tightly around himself again. She sat down on the edge of the bed once more, trying to build up the stamina it would take to see her partner naked. Not that it would be the first time. But, and this was important in her mind, it was the first time that she was alone with him and he was conscious. She reached out to grab the edge of the covers. "Let me have a look," she said.

He almost laughed again, too embarrassed to look at her. This was bad for his reputation. The only time he knew of that she might have seen him naked had been the one time he had been out cold after that fateful trip to the Arctic. And he wished desperately that he could pass out now. He didn't know why, but this wasn't the situation he wanted her to see him without clothes in. "Maybe you shouldn't," he tried.

"And maybe I should. Let go of the covers, Mulder. You're not the first man I've seen naked and you probably won't be the last, either. I'm a doctor, after all," she told him, gently tugging at the sheet. For a moment longer, he held on, then his fingers slowly opened, releasing the edge of the sheet.

She was aware how awkward this was for him and it was no less so for her. But she would never show it because it might increase his discomfort. She slowly peeled the covers off him, exposing his chest first and noting the deep scratch-marks there. Gently she pushed his arm out of the way to take a closer look.

"These ... cuts are infected," she told him. "Not badly, but they should be cleaned."

The shiver running through him as she again pulled the covers further down was a clear sign to her that this was a very bad and demeaning situation for him to be in. Her eyes trailed over his body until she had uncovered enough.

For a moment, she stared at his abdomen with absolute horror, then she briefly glanced at his face, noting that he was definitely not looking at her. His eyes were squeezed shut and an occasional tear trickled from the corners of his eyes. Heaving a deep breath, she looked back at the injuries.

"Jesus," she mumbled. She placed a hand on his thigh and pushed it back a bit to get a better look. No wonder he was feeling sick. The injuries, although not as bad as she had feared, looked extremely painful. And she knew that the body of a man most of the time responded violently to injuries in that particular area. She even felt her own stomach roll at the sight and feared she might not be able to maintain a professional perspective on this.

"Uhm . . ." she began, not really knowing how to put this to make it any less embarrassing. "There seems to be some infection here," she told him, having to keep talking to take her mind of what she was looking at. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. "I'm going to take a closer look . . ." she went on, hesitating before she touched him.

It felt wrong, somehow, and she again wished that he would agree to go to the hospital. But she could also imagine the scorn he would receive if this ever got out and it would get out. She knew that. If it was in his file, all his so-called colleagues would have access to it and they would use it against him.

Carefully, she moved his penis and he hissed, jerking when she touched him. "I know it hurts. I'll try to be as gentle as possible."

For an agonizing half hour she examined and treated him and when she was finally done, she pulled the covers back over him. The scratches on his chest were dealt with, his ankles and his wrists had been cleaned and bandaged. His genitalia was a different story. Scully had administered the only thing she could, considering that even the lightest touch had almost sent him through the roof with agony. After going over the contents of her bag, she had applied an ointment which was mildly antiseptic and aesthetical. She had then given him an injection of Pentazocine and waited for it to take effect before she wrapped the whole thing up in a light bandage.

With a sigh, she leaned back. "That's it," she said, pulling the gloves off again.

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, then slowly opened them again, blinking sluggishly at her. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Do you feel any better?" she wanted to know, sitting with her hands in her lap.

He blinked again, then slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. What he was most afraid of was her reaction to this. That she might see him as incomplete somehow. That she might find this funny. But all he saw in her eyes was concern for his well-being. "A little," he told her after a moment.

She smiled, not certain if he wanted to be touched or not. "Good. It should heal fairly quickly if you rest a lot. So there's no work for you for the next couple of days," she said, the latter in a stern tone of voice. She was set on keeping him in bed until he was able to move without too much discomfort.

"I don't really feel up to it anyway, so that's fine with me," he replied and looked away again.

"Now you tell me what happened," she insisted after a moment, not really certain she wanted to hear it.

He lay still, staring ahead of himself for a moment. The pain had subsided after the injection had taken effect and that left him with the capability to think more clearly although his mind was a little sluggish from the drug. "You'll think I'm crazy," he mumbled after a moment.

"I already think you are," she teased him mildly. "So, shock me."

Staring ahead of himself for a moment, he considered how to tell her what he had been through, to tell her who had put him through it, but couldn't find the right words. "It's ... " he began, hesitated, and then cleared his throat. "Uhm . . ." Closing his eyes, he wondered if it would be easier if he didn't look at her. "After I came home, I decided to try and sleep. So I went to bed. I woke up some time later to discover that I had been ... chained to my bed." He paused again, glancing at her.

Scully watched him intently for a second, then decided that he might find it easier if she didn't watch him. She got up and walked over to the window to look outside, keeping her eyes on the street below.

He stared at her back for a moment, trying to force his stomach to stop rolling. The memories of those hours. Swallowing hard, he tried to maintain a grip on himself. "Uhm ... naturally I was confused. I'm not ... into that, if you know what I mean." She nodded, but kept her back turned and he found that he was actually grateful for that. He didn't want her staring at him in disbelief or disgust, feelings he was at this moment experiencing himself. "Then ... she turned up. I was . . ." he tried to go on, but found that he couldn't get himself to tell her that he had thought her capable of doing something like this to him. "She was ... slick," he mumbled. "Full of scorn and glee. She went about ... hurting me. After she was done, she removed the chains and left again."

Scully frowned, keeping her back turned. When he didn't go on, she briefly closed her eyes. "Why didn't you call someone? You could have left a message on my answering machine, Mulder." Her tone of voice was lightly admonishing and she intended for it to be as she could not understand how he would not call for help when he was in so much pain.

He was quiet for a long time, trying out explanation after explanation in his head and found that none of them would make any sense to her. Not unless he got down to the point and that would mean risking her utter disbelief or resentment. He wouldn't be able to take either. Not after what he had been through. "She looked like you," he mumbled quietly.

Scully stiffened. Had he really just said what she thought he had? Slowly turning around, she stared at him. "Excuse me?"

He didn't look at her, didn't want to look at her. "She looked exactly like you," he repeated a little louder. "I was dumb-founded. I couldn't make sense of it. And all while she ... did what she did, I kept thinking that it couldn't be true. That you would never do something like this. Not to me. Not to anybody." He closed his eyes and pressed both palms onto his face. Groaning, he tried to erase the pictures in his mind, cursing his photographic memory to hell. "I was scared. Petrified."

Scully could do nothing more than stare at him for a long time. Conflicting feelings fought for dominance in her, making her feel partially horrified by the idea and partially angry. The anger was caused mostly by the fact that somebody would try and pull a stunt like that. "Whoever arranged this did it to separate us for good, Mulder. Unfortunately for them, they don't seem to know me very well. And obviously they don't know how strong a bond of friendship we have." She sat back down on the edge of the bed, pressing her hands over his. "I would never, ever do something like this to you. Especially not to you. The idea alone is revolting to me. I don't like to hurt other people and I don't like being hurt myself. I don't get a kick out of it." Letting her hands trace down his arms, she grabbed a hold of them and pulled his hands away from his face. He opened his eyes and faced her, looking pained and embarrassed and afraid. "I'm not leaving your side from now on and until we find out who did this. And when we find them, they'll be dealt with. I will not have something as obscene as this get between us, Mulder. I care too much about you to let that happen."

He stared up at her and the first kindling of his inner feelings for her was stirred. He grabbed both her hands and held them tightly, unable to find words for what he was feeling at that very moment. "Thanks," he mumbled instead.

"You're welcome," she replied and sighed. "I don't understand this," she added. "I don't understand why they would go to such lengths to separate us. Are we really that dangerous to them? "

"Together, I guess we are. Separately ... probably not." He mimicked her sigh, worn-out from hurting too much for too long. "Scully." She met his eyes with a soothing smile. "Don't leave me alone, okay? Not even for a moment."

"I'll stay here until you're well enough to move. Then you're coming home with me. They'll have to be bold as hell to try something there," she told him, squeezing his hands tightly.

Mulder kept silent, knowing that this woman would not shy back from hurting Scully. And under everything, there was a gnawing doubt. Had she really been as gentle as she could have been? He closed his eyes, trying to close out the haunting image of that so unbecoming smile on her face.

Scully briefly caressed his cheek, unable not to notice how he flinched when she touched him. "You must be exhausted. I'll let you get some rest. I'll be in the living room if you need me," she told him and got up.

He nodded weakly, already half asleep.

* * *

**02.05 p.m.**

His dreams were intruding, forceful, almost nightmarish. He was hurting, alone. Nobody around he could trust. Nothing anybody could do to help him. He saw Scully, begged for her help, but she only laughed at him, a sickening, superior laughter which tore at his soul.

With a gasp, he woke up, moved a little too forcefully and gasped at the pain this caused him. His wrists were sore and still swollen and so, he felt, was the rest of him. He rolled carefully over on his back, aware that the painkillers Scully had given him were wearing off. He didn't know if he could handle the pain right now, but remembered that Scully had left him some pills and a glass of water.

He turned his head toward the night stand and froze. The glass and the pills were gone. Looking toward the other side of the bed, he spotted the glass there. It crossed his mind that Scully wouldn't have put them out of his reach, but he ignored the obvious oversight and pulled himself laboriously across the bed toward the alluring painkillers. He reached a hand out for them but another hand dropped down to cover them. He almost forgot to breathe when his eyes trailed up her arm to her face. That woman again. The one who looked so much like Scully.

With a burst of energy and strength he previously would have denied he was in possession of, he pushed himself backward. His attempt to sit up, though, caused him to jerk violently.

"Careful now, Fox," she whispered, her expression evil. "You wouldn't want to hurt yourself, now would you?"

"I know you're not Scully," he gasped, pulling as far back as the bed allowed.

"Do you now?" she cooed and started around the bed. She was wearing that body stocking again and the sight of it made him cringe. "And how do you know that? Just because I can play nice?"

He stared at her, not wanting to believe what she said. "You're not Scully," he repeated.

She reached out and grasped his right ankle, closing her fingers hard around the bandage and he yelped, trying to kick out at her with the other foot. But she caught that, too, pressing both his feet down onto the mattress. "Oh yes, I am," she told him and pulled at his legs. Her strength was considerable, freighting in its intensity.

"Let go," he winced, trying to twist out of her grip. The more he moved, the tighter her grip became and the more it hurt. "You're not Scully," he insisted, sweat springing out on his brow. He was about to call for Scully, to scream for her if necessary, when his assailant leapt forward, slapped a hand over his mouth while pressing him down on the bed with unbelievable force.

She forced his arms under her knees, holding him in a vice-like grip between her legs, and smiled viciously at him. "Easy now," she shushed him. When he didn't calm down, she pressed a finger against the cuts on his chest. It hurt bad enough for him to stop moving. "That's better," she cooed. "Now, where were we?"

He put more effort into getting free, but no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to shake her. And that convinced him that she wasn't Scully. Couldn't be. She was too strong to be human. When he once again attempted to get her off him, to get her hand away from his mouth, she did something he hadn't expected. She hammered a fist into his solar plexus, causing instant paralysis from the pain. He couldn't breathe for a moment and she used that moment to shackle his wrists and lock them to the head board of the bed. Wheezing, he tried to regain enough breath to scream for help. But again she beat him to it, stuffing a roll of fabric she retrieved from the front of the body stocking like before into his mouth. He fought the restraints, causing himself more pain that necessary, but he hoped that the racket he was making would wake Scully up.

* * *

**02.22 p.m.**

Dana Scully had fallen asleep. She woke up with a start, not sure what had roused her at first. She sat up on Mulder's couch and brushed both hands through her hair, blinking. There was some kind of noise in the background and at first she didn't pay attention to it. Then it suddenly hit her that it came from within the apartment.

She was off the couch, wide awake and running toward the closed bedroom door within a second. Her gun drawn, she pushed the door open and stopped at the sight that met her. His tormentor had returned and she did look like her.

"Get away from him," she yelled, angry at herself for not paying better attention. She should have been able to prevent this woman from entering the apartment. Holding the gun with both hands, she didn't take her eyes off the woman long enough to check on Mulder. "Don't make me tell you twice," she warned hatefully.

The woman slipped off the bed and straightened up, her eyes locked on Scully's. There was no doubt in her mind that Scully would pull the trigger if she didn't comply. "Well, I guess you're right, Fox. I'm not Dana Scully," she said, briefly glancing down at the suspended man. As she did, she changed. She shape-shifted into another woman. "Shooting at me would be a very stupid thing to do, agent Scully," she added. "You would both die and I could just walk out of here. So what do you say we call a truce?"

"A truce?" Scully snapped. She had realized that most of her anger was focused on the fact that this woman had disguised as her to hurt Mulder. "I don't think so. Back away from the bed." Her tone of voice was harsh.

"I'm sorry you see it that way," the woman replied, edging away from the bed, holding her hands up. Not because she was afraid of being shot. She was trying to lull Scully into believing that she had the upper hand here. She edged along the wall toward the foot end of the bed and took a step toward Scully.

"Stop," Scully warned her, in turn taking a step closer herself. A moan from her partner distracted her and she glanced at him, appalled at seeing him in this condition. Before she had a chance to react, the shape-shifter had backhanded her harshly across the temple, knocking the world out of focus. The next blow was administered to her solar plexus hard enough for her to pass out instantly. Scully hit the floor, the gun dropping down on the bed.

"No," the shape-shifter said with a wicked smile. "You stop." With that comment, she grabbed Scully and hauled her out of the room. She dumped her just outside the bedroom door and closed it. "Now we can have some fun," she said and turned back to her helpless, terrified, struggling victim.

* * *

**10.12 p.m.**

Scully came to with a major headache and an aching chest. She sat up gingerly, trying to regain her bearings, briefly disoriented. Then the gruesome facts of what had happened came back to her and she staggered to her feet, her eyes on the half-open bedroom door. It was awfully quiet in the apartment. Much too quiet for her liking.

Glancing briefly at the front door, she wondered how long she had been out. Aware that what she might see could be upsetting, she heaved a deep breath and pushed the door open. Standing in the doorway, she stared at the scene unfolding before her, trying to comprehend that someone would do this to another person. Her eyelids slid shut for a moment, then she slowly walked up to the bed.

He lay sprawled on the bed, a blood stained sheet barely covering him, and all she could see were cuts and bruises. The bandages around his wrists and ankles were soaked with blood, the gauze which had covered the wounds on his chest still stuck on one side, revealing the newly gouged gashes. Among a whole lot of new ones. The only thing untouched by this mayhem was his face. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her breath shallow. The whole world had slowed down, setting everything to slow motion.

She reached icy fingers out to touch his throat, feeling for the pulse and finding it. It wasn't nearly as weak as she had thought. Actually she had thought that it would be none-present. The way he looked could easily have let her to believe that he had not survived this second encounter. On second thought, she feared he might wish he had not survived it when he came around.

That thought put her gears in motion. To think that he might wake up to a world of pain was not something that would happen as long as she was around. No way. She returned to the living room to get her bag, filled a syringe with morphine and injected it into his arm. That should keep him under until she had dealt with the worst of the cuts and bruises. Then she would give him a shot for the pain and move him to somewhere.

After the initial shock had receded, she became painfully aware that she would not be able to move him on her own. There were actually two options open to her. The first was calling the Lone Gunmen. But she couldn't with any kind of certainty estimate whether they would help. They probably would, but she was uncertain about how far they would go for their friend. The second option was the one she dreaded, yet preferred. At least Skinner wouldn't have any qualms about firing a gun if necessary.

She systematically worked around the sheet covering him while cleaning and bandaging the wounds, leaving the worst till last. There was no doubt in her mind that this ... woman or whatever she was had B in want of a better word B molested him again. When she finally reached the point where she could no longer put it off, she gingerly removed the sheet and, with her mind in clinical mode, she estimated the damage done and the future side effects this might have.

Dealing with the problem at hand pushed her troubled thoughts of why this had happened aside for the time being. She worked well under pressure, yet the subject of her attention was one she would have preferred to leave in the capable hands of another medical doctor. This was a bit too personal. When she was finally done, she had no doubt in her mind that he would be in pain when he woke up again. No matter how much Pentazocine she filled him with.

After cleaning up the bedroom as much as she could, she put the blood-stained sheets to soak in the sink in the bathroom and finally found herself running out of things to do which could postpone that call she had to make. It had gotten dark in the meantime and she wasn't too keen on having to explain why she needed his help regarding her partner. Mostly she would have to come up with a way to keep this a secret. Reluctantly, she reached for the phone and dialed his number.

"Skinner."

His response was gruff as always and Scully winced inwardly at what she was about to do. "Sir, it's Dana Scully," she said.

"Scully?" He sounded surprised. "Do you know what time it is?" he added a little brusquely.

Frowning, she glanced at the clock on the video and pursed her lips. It read 11.30 p.m. "Oh, uhm ... I had no idea it was this late. I'm sorry about that, but I need your help. Urgently!"

A brief moment of silence followed that. "For what?" he asked, his tone suddenly more mellow.

"Uhm . . ." She briefly considered how to put it. "It is a highly confidential matter. One that I cannot turn to anyone else with. And I'd rather not discuss it over the phone." She was not trying to flatter him, but mainly to make him understand that it was important that he didn't talk about it. She paused, giving him a chance to react to it.

"Where are you calling from?" he wanted to know, more or less letting her know that he would help by not turning her down at once.

"Agent Mulder's apartment, sir," she replied.

She heard him sigh and knew what was going through his head right now. "Not another ... suicide attempt, is it?" he asked, his tone of voice slightly sarcastic.

Scully would have been able to see the funny side of this if the situation hadn't been so serious. "No, sir. This is a little more serious than that," she replied, hearing the tenseness in her own voice.

He grumbled something under his breath. "All right. I'll be right over. But I expect an explanation, agent Scully," he finally said and hung up.

Scully returned the phone to its holder. "Oh, you'll get one. And I'm sure you won't like it," she mumbled into the darkness of the living room.

* * *

**11.55 p.m.**

Skinner arrived at Mulder's apartment half an hour later. After turning the engine of his car off, he sat there for a moment, unable to imagine what could be worse than that staged suicide. But he had no doubt that Scully would have let him know if it had been a genuine death. With a heartfelt sigh, he got out of the car and went upstairs. Scully opened the door, letting him in.

Skinner briefly glanced around the small hallway, noting that the bedroom door was closed, then focused on Scully. "All right. What is this all about and where is agent Mulder?" The way Scully avoided his eyes made him uncertain about why he was here.

"He's in the bedroom and I'd rather not discuss the reason for my request for help here. Agent Mulder has had ... uhm ... an accident, twice, and we need to get him out of town to prevent it from happening again," Scully said. She really didn't want to discuss the reason here. Mainly because she thought the apartment might be bugged. It annoyed her slightly that Mulder had this much influence on her, but she was starting to believe in his rather paranoid view of the world.

Skinner again glanced at the bedroom door, then looked back at Scully with a frown. "And you can't get him out on your own. Is that it?" he wanted to know and she nodded.

"Yes, sir. That's it. Mainly because I can't move him myself and ... well ... I couldn't call anybody else. He has begged me not to call an ambulance, although I do believe it might serve him better to get to a hospital. But I understand his reluctance and I do believe that he would not be safe in a hospital." Explaining it without telling Skinner what she was talking about was the hard part here. And she knew how annoyed he could get if people weren't clear about such things.

Skinner took a step toward the bedroom door, then glanced at Scully. "I'm not happy about this," he told her.

"Neither am I, sir, but this has to be done. To protect him both physically and mentally," she insisted.

* * *

**03.15 a.m.  
December 18  
The Scully Summer residence  
Appalachian Mountains**

The cabin was far off from Washington, high in the Appalachian Mountains. It belonged to Scully's family and had been a family heritage as far back as she could remember. Rarely used, she doubted that very many people outside of her family knew it existed. Hence she had chosen this very spot to take her friend and partner to help him heal and protect him from further attacks.

The morphine, a generous shot by any measure, had kept him under for the whole trip. Scully had B to prevent any embarrassment and too early demands for an explanation B clad him in a pair of loose sweat pants and the matching sweatshirt. The only explaining she would have to do from that were the bandages around his wrists and ankles. But even those Skinner did not ask about. He merely had helped her get him down to her car, where after they had driven both cars to the cabin.

Once Scully had installed her partner in the downstairs bedroom and assured herself that he was still out and hence not in any pain, she returned to the living room. Skinner had turned on some lamps and had started a fire in the fire place. When she dropped down heavily on a chair across from him, he stared intently at her. "Are you going to explain to me what is going on?" he wanted to know after a moment.

"I will," she said, looking down at her hands lying in her lap. "It's just difficult." Heaving a deep breath, she held it in for a moment, considering the best choice of words and found that there were no choices. "Yesterday," she began, glancing at her watch and noting that it was well past one in the morning. "Actually, two days ago," she corrected herself, "I told Mulder to go home and get some sleep. He looked like something the cat had dragged in. He went around mid-day and as I did not want to bother him, I did not call him that day. The following day, yesterday, he did not show up for work, as you know. He called in sick with the stomach flu. I called him to check on him and was quite surprised by his rather blunt reaction to me. He has been angry at me in the past for various reasons, but this did not sound like anger. More like a mild kind of fear and a pretty big dose of resentment." She paused, glancing up at Skinner, who was listening to her without comment. "I went over to check on him as his behavior was rather bizarre and, quite frankly, I was concerned about him. I let myself in when he did not respond to my knocking. The first thing I noticed was a trail of blood on the floor." Frowning, she recalled the moment she had realized what had happened to him. "He was in bed and at first I believed that he did have the stomach flu. But . . ."

"He didn't," Skinner continued for her and she nodded.

"That's right. Although his immediate condition could point at that. He was feeling nauseous. But not due to any kind of flu. It was due to something he had experienced during the late evening or early night." Rubbing a hand over her face, she tried to phrase it in her mind first. But even there the words would not come. "He had been ... for want of a better word ... molested."

Skinner's surprise was obvious when he leaned forward, staring at her with disbelief. "Molested?"

"Yes. That's the only word that fits this scenario. Otherwise I would have to use the word . . ." she went on, but hesitated, then looked up to meet his eyes "...raped."

That brought a frown to his face. "Agent Scully, are you telling me that agent Mulder was ... raped in his own apartment?" he asked, wanting to have it cleared up completely. Scully nodded serenely. That caused another bout of disbelief. "By whom?"

Scully sighed deeply and folded her hands, staring down at them for a second. "Well ... I'll get to that. The whole thing is still a little ... absurd to me." Pursing her lips, she went over the conversation she'd had with Mulder in her mind. "His initial reaction to me when he woke up was rather surprising. He drew back. He looked like he was terrified by the mere sight of me. I managed to talk him out of this apparent horror and received an explanation as to why he had reacted that way. He thought that I had done that to him."

Skinner found this whole thing a little too bizarre at the moment. "You?" he asked. "How should you have been able to do something like that to him? He's quite a bit taller than you and my guess is that he is also stronger than you. This is ridiculous."

"That was my initial reaction, but the state he was in made it no laughing matter. He had . . . deep gashes on his chest and his wrists and ankles had been scoffed badly by shackles of some kind. But that wasn't the worst." She hesitated, not certain she should go into detail about this.

"It wasn't?" Skinner asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear the rest. He had a bad feeling about what she was going to say. Like he knew already.

"No," Scully said, finding it difficult to keep her shoulders relaxed. She cleared her throat, as embarrassed by what she had to tell him as she was angry that it had happened at all. "His ... abdomen. The skin was raw and bleeding. I don't know for certain what caused it, although I can imagine. It was also infected. Not as badly as I had feared. Obviously he had been able to make it to the bathroom and shower, hence cleaning most of the wounds he had received out. There were also signs of severe bruising. In my training as a doctor, I cared for his wounds after he insisted that I should not call an ambulance. He was afraid of the consequences if this kind of information were to appear in his official file."

Skinner had to swallow hard at her words. This was insane. "Jesus," he mumbled, finally understanding why this situation seemingly was so difficult. "I would have thought that he knew better than to think that this kind of information would be stated in his official record, Scully," he said after a moment. "But no matter. I take it this happened again?"

"Yes, it did. I decided to stay, to keep an eye on him and ... well ... aide him in any way possible. Mainly because he was afraid that this ... woman would come back. And she did come back. I attempted to stop her, but she managed to knock me out and when I came to again, it was all over. If he gets away with the physical scars, he'll be lucky. I don't believe that he will, though. I'm afraid he may need some kind of psychological assistance once he's back on his feet."

Skinner nodded. "We'll see to that when the time comes. Right now I'm interested in who this woman is. Did she look like you?" he demanded.

Now came the really hard part of her explanation. "Uhm ... yes. At first she did," she said.

Frowning, Skinner sat back on the couch, staring at her. "At first?"

"Yes. At first she was an exact copy of me. Then she changed. Became somebody else. Don't ask me to explain it. I can't. I just know what I saw and there is no question of trickery here, either. The daylight was flooding the bedroom." She shook her head in silent denial of her own words. "I don't understand it. I can't possibly understand how she did it. And, in general, I don't care. What I want to know is why. Why would anybody want to do this to him? Why would anybody want to do this to anyone?"

The thought of what she had told him made a shiver run up his spine. This was bad news. "Well, if she looked like you, the reason is obvious, isn't it? What better way to drive a wedge between the two of you than make him believe that you would do something like that to him."

Scully nodded. "My thoughts exactly. But why did she come back? I mean, she must have been aware that I was there. Although I was asleep when she turned up, she could not have avoided seeing me."

"Obviously these people don't understand the kind of ... partnership you have with Mulder," Skinner said, revealing that he was quite aware of how close they were. "And maybe she just got carried away. You know as well as I do that there are people out there capable of doing this to others without the slightest feelings of remorse."

They were silent for a moment, each engrossed in their own thoughts on the subject, then Scully finally nodded. "I believe you're right. I also believe that this ... woman will make another attempt. I hope that they do not know about this cabin, but they have previously proven to be quite resourceful and I would not be surprised if she turned up here." Pausing, she considered their options. "If she is indeed one of these ... whatever they are, these people with the green poisonous blood, then we can't let her in here. If we have to shoot her, we have to do it outside. Otherwise we could be infected by this retro-virus that Mulder has previously been exposed to. A virus which kills within a very short time."

Nodding his consent, Skinner finally shrugged out of his coat. "We'll deal with that when we get to it, Scully. Right now, I think we could both benefit from some sleep. I can only imagine the kind of pain that he will be in when he wakes up and I have a feeling that the next couple of days will be rather stressful."

Suppressing a yawn, Scully suddenly realized how tired she was. "How do we explain that all three of us are absent from work?" she wanted to know.

"Well, you have obviously been infected by that stomach flu which has knocked Mulder out," Skinner replied indifferently. "As for me, I've just decided to take a few personal days. It's been a while since I had a vacation and I think I'm entitled to a few days away from the office. What I do in my spare time is no business of theirs."

* * *

**10.45 a.m.**

Pain was what eventually tugged him out of the blissful darkness surrounding him. He woke up in pain, his throat dry, unable to focus his eyes. Any move he made sent nauseating waves of pain through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into the covers of the bed he was in. Unfamiliar scents assaulted him along with sounds he could not identify.

Groaning, he opened his eyes again, but found that he was still unable to get a clear picture of the room he was in. And that brought panic with it. In his attempt to sit up he was harshly reminded of why he was in this state. The pain spreading from his abdomen made him gag uncontrollably and it was only due to the fact that his stomach was already empty that he did not throw up all over the place. Wincing at the painful contractions of his stomach, he rolled over on his side and curled up and wished he could just pass out again.

A door somewhere behind him opened. He frantically blinked his eyes, trying to clear them, aware that the person entering the room might not have his best interests in mind.

A cool hand touched his brow so suddenly, he jerked back.

"Easy, Mulder. It's me."

He listened to her voice, trying to read her intentions. And then things slowly started falling into place. He again remembered what had happened and that she was not the enemy. Moaning, he grabbed out for her and caught her wrist awkwardly.

She touched his face, aware that he had trouble seeing straight. The morphine was not entirely out of his system yet. "Sh," she shushed him. "Easy. I gave you a shot of morphine yesterday. You may have difficulty in focusing just yet. Just try to relax. Are you in pain?" He nodded, his throat too dry to speak. "I'll give you a shot for it," she said.

He heard her fiddling with something, felt her swap his arm and the needle penetrating the skin. After a moment, the pain ebbed away.

Scully ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, and found it difficult to contain an almost anguished expression. "It's all right. I'm right here," she told him. He cleared his throat, trying to speak, but nothing came out. "Don't try to speak. You must be parched," she said. "Hang on. I'll get you something to drink."

She disappeared for a moment. He blinked, hoping that his eyes would soon be able to give him a clear picture of his surroundings. One of the scents bombarding him, he had identified. Pine. The room smelled of pine. And that meant he wasn't at home any more. Or in Scully's apartment, for that matter. He heard her coming back and could make out a fuzzy outline with swimming colors randomly distributed throughout. She touched a cool glass to his lips after helping him raise his head and he drank greedily. She didn't let him have too much at once.

"Where am I?" he finally managed to ask her. The water helped him focus, too, and the whole scene slowly returned to normal.

"A cottage that belongs to my family," Scully replied, touching his forehead for a moment. "Well, you don't have a fever. That's always something."

Unable to concentrate for longer periods of time B obviously a side-effect of the morphine B he let his eyes slide shut. "How did you get me here?" His voice was barely audible.

Scully rearranged the covers, tugging him in. "I had to call help. The only kind of help I was able to get without having to worry that something might go wrong." When she looked back at his face, she found him staring at her despite his obvious fatigue. "I called Skinner," she told him.

Mulder merely nodded once. That was what he had expected when she said she had called help. "You're finally beginning to trust him, huh?" he wanted to know.

She nodded. "Yes, I am. And now you need to rest some more. You're in no condition for asking questions." Getting up, she smiled weakly at him. "You've been through hell. You need time to heal."

He blinked a few times, then closed his eyes again, too tired to argue with her. There was a dull throb in his body and he just wanted to get away from it.


	3. Chapter 3

**03.52 p.m.  
December 19**

Scully stood in the open doorway, leaning one shoulder against the door frame while staring out at the forest which surrounded the cottage. She had loved this place when she had been a kid. Home had always been different, never one place the same, yet all of them alike in some uncanny way. This place had been the true constant in her childhood. A place of serenity, of calmness. This was the place where her parents were relaxed and content just to be together.

She glanced sideways at Skinner when he stepped up behind her, staring at the trees engrossed in his own thoughts. "Is he going to be all right?" he asked after a moment.

"Physically, yes. Mentally, I don't know. He's so screwed up already, I'm not certain what this will do to him. He has so much mental baggage to drag around . . ." She shook her head, breaking off before she said something she shouldn't.

Skinner gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry. Mulder is a survivor. He would have succumbed a long time ago if he wasn't." Heaving a deep breath, he wondered if an attack was forthcoming. "We've been here for two days, Scully," he added almost as if on second thought.

"I know," she replied, hoping that whatever would happen would happen soon. The waiting was getting to her. "To be quite honest, I'm afraid to return to Washington. As long as that ... female is out there, she can still hurt him. And I think he's been hurt enough."

Pursing his lips, Skinner frowned at the forest. He did not see its serenity or calmness. He saw it as a potential hiding place for whatever foe they were up against now. "Whatever is going to happen will happen. And when it does, we will be ready for it." With those words, he turned around and went back into the cottage.

"I sure hope so," Scully whispered, stepped back and closed the door.

* * *

**06.45 a.m.  
December 20**

After having spent two days in bed where he had been basically unable to move, Mulder found that he was in better shape when he woke up the third day. Gingerly, he pushed himself up in a sitting position, instantly aware that the pain was much less potent that it had been. A dull throb was all that was left and it made him sigh with relief. He felt weak, worn-out, but still better than he had felt two days ago.

With an effort, he pushed himself to the edge of the bed, and pulled his legs over the side, intent on getting up. He wasn't a man who stayed in bed any longer than he necessarily had to and now that he felt this much better, he wasn't about to lie around and do nothing. He grabbed the sweatpants lying on the chair next to the night stand, but hesitated before pulling them on. He felt awkward and he was still apprehensive about the pain, but he also wanted to get up.

It had been a struggle, but eventually he was up, dressed in the pants and the sweatshirt. His first testing step went a lot better than he had hoped and although he walked as if he were treading on eggshells, he made it to the door before he had to stop. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink in almost four days and it was no surprise to him when he was overcome by a dizzy spell.

He leaned forward a little, grabbing his knees with his hands and waited it out. When the black spots cleared from his vision again, he straightened and opened the door. The cottage was quiet, still lulled in the stillness of early mornings, as he made his way toward the open kitchen door. He needed some food, something to drink. His stomach insisted on it.

Standing there, a piece of bread in one hand and a glass of water in the other, he suddenly felt the traction of standing up. It hit him like a ton of bricks and the dull throb he so far had been able to ignore blossomed into something more. Focusing on keeping his balance, he let go of the bread and grabbed out for the kitchen counter.

Steadying himself, he set the glass down next to his hand, a strangled sound escaping him. It had dawned on him that the painkiller had just stopped working and he cursed himself for not thinking of it. He eased down on a chair, breathing deeply a couple of times to at least keep his stomach from rolling too much. "Damn," he breathed. The distance back to the bedroom seemed too much to overcome and he had no idea what time it was. Hence he had no way of knowing if Scully would be up any time soon. Another strangled sound of agony escaped him at the thought of having to sit here for much longer.

"Aren't you up a little too early?" Scully's voice broke through the haze in his mind and he looked up, deadly pale. "I'll get you something for the pain," she said and left again only to return moments later with a filled syringe. She squatted down next to him, swapped his arm after pulling up his sleeve and gave him the injection. Rocking back on her heels, she waited for it to work before she spoke again. When his eyes slid shut and he exhaled a shuddering sigh, she knew the Pentazocine was finally working. "What are you doing up?" she demanded.

Not looking at her, he tried to come up with a halfway defendable explanation. "I was hungry," he mumbled.

Scully nodded and rose. "Come on. Let's get you back to bed." She took his arm, helping him up.

He eased down on the bed, moving carefully. Although the injection had taken away most of the pain, he knew he shouldn't overdo it. If would come back to haunt him later if he thought he could move too much now.

Scully drew the covers over him and sat down on the edge of the bed. "According to what I can see, you've been more frightened than hurt. No permanent damage. I have no doubt that it hurts like hell, though. And to avoid causing yourself more pain than is absolutely necessary, I suggest that you stay in bed until you don't feel any pain at all. And that's without the painkillers. You can't count on being able to move around while affected by the painkillers. Mainly because it will come back to haunt you later if you do."

Embarrassed by his own overconfidence, he didn't look at her. "I know," he agreed. "I'm sorry. That was stupid. I just thought . . ." he began, but trailed off.

"I know, I know," Scully said, patting his arm. "Just take it easy, okay? You'll be up and about in no time if you just take it easy."

* * *

**08.10 p.m.**

That evening Skinner was standing on the porch, watching the forest once more. There was something out there. His deeper-lying instincts, which he had fought so hard to suppress after returning home from Vietnam, had stirred and come alive half an hour ago. He knew something was watching the cabin. He could sense it in a way that reminded him of the war. Restlessly scanning the surrounding forest, he was about to warn Scully when she turned up beside him.

Noting the way he was watching their immediate surroundings, she realized that something was up. "Problems?" she asked in a low tone of voice.

"Maybe," he replied. "You better go back inside and keep an eye on Mulder. I don't want him to be alone."

Scully nodded and returned to Mulder's bedroom. Mulder looked up when she came in, instantly aware of her state of mind. "What's going on?"

"I'm not certain, but Skinner seems to think somebody's out there," she said, nodding toward the window.

Mulder glanced toward the window and swallowed. He suddenly felt very much like a little kid afraid of the dark again. Except that this threat was very real. "How can you possibly think that you can stop her, Scully?" he wanted to know.

"We'll stop her. Even if it means blowing up the whole forest," she replied through clenched teeth. Her shoulders were up around her ears, her whole posture aggravated. "I won't let her near you again," she added, her eyes on the window. "Maybe you'd better come with me. I think it's safer if we all stay together."

Mulder nodded and laboriously got off the bed. Scully helped him into the living room, but he didn't stop there. He slowly walked up to the open door.

Skinner briefly glanced at him, then returned to stare at the forest. "How are you feeling?"

"Mostly embarrassed now," Mulder replied, gabbing a hold of the door frame. He could almost feel the disapproval at his choice of reply.

"You've got nothing to be embarrassed about, Mulder. It's not like this is something you chose to go through." There were no doubts in that statement and Mulder was grateful that his boss saw it that way.

"No, that's for sure," he agreed. "Anything out there?"

Skinner didn't need to reply to it. She had turned up between two pine trees and just stood there, watching them in turn. Skinner pulled his gun and Mulder heard the safety being switched of Scully's gun right behind him. She brushed past him to stand in front of him.

The shape-shifter took a few steps closer and stopped again, eyeing them thoughtfully. "Well, well, well. You're better protected than we thought," she said, her eyes on Mulder. "Much better protected."

"Turn around and walk away," Skinner advised her.

"Or what?" she wanted to know, her eyes shifting to his.

"You die," he replied indifferently.

"Do I now," she cooed, smiling coldly. "And how do you propose to survive killing me? My blood is poison to you people. The vapors alone will cause you incredible agony before you die."

"Not out here it won't," Skinner told her, still sounding utterly indifferent.

That seemed to cause her to pause. She didn't reply at once and a frown furrowed her brow. She was a beautiful woman, yet her eyes displayed her true self and that made her ugly. "And how do you know that?" she wanted to know.

"I just know," Skinner replied and finally raised his gun. "Turn around and walk away," he repeated.

Shaking her head almost sadly, she took a step forward. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I had never planned on it going this far, you know. I got a bit carried away," she told them, her eyes flicking back to Mulder, who in turn flinched and drew back a step.

Scully had raised her gun as well and had it trained on her. She was so close to just pulling the trigger right there and then, that it actually scared her a little. Mainly because she felt nothing at the prospect of taking a life. "Walk away," she supported Skinner's statement.

The woman smiled. "How's the head, agent Scully?" she replied and the smile became a grin. Evil and unattractive.

"One step closer and we open fire. Turn around and walk away," Skinner told her once more. "I'm not telling you again."

She kept on grinning, obviously convinced that they would not do it. She was looking forward to having some more fun and if it meant killing those two in her way, she would. She was gleeful in anticipation when she stepped forward. Just then, she realized that Skinner had not been kidding. He fired the moment she moved. The slug hit her dead center in the forehead, ripping through her brain and instantly destroying the nerve-center which allowed beings like her to usually survive shots like that. Her dying thought was that he had known exactly where to shoot her to kill her. And then the world went black.

Skinner lowered his gun as the woman collapsed to the ground, the disintegration starting up almost instantly. "Well," he said while watching the body on the ground turn to green slush, "nobody can say I didn't warn her."

Mulder stood still, staring out at the scene with an odd feeling in his guts. What actually surprised him the most was that Skinner had killed to protect him. Slowly, his gaze drifted over to his boss and he stared at him. "You killed her," he stated, his tone of voice displaying his surprise.

Skinner looked back at him for a moment, then glanced at Scully. "After seeing what she did to Scully, I didn't want to take any chances. After hearing about what she did to you . . ." He left the rest unsaid. There was no need to continue that sentence. With a tight expression, he went back into the cottage. "Now we can all go home," he added and went upstairs to get his things.

Scully sighed deeply, her eyes still on the rapidly dissolving body out there. "Yes, now we can all go home," she agreed and turned to face Mulder. "But I still want to keep an eye on you, so you're coming home with me." When he opened his mouth to argue, she raised a hand. "No discussions, please. There's nothing to discuss. You're going to stay with me until you're fully recovered. End of story."

Mulder just stared at her for a second, then gingerly stepped aside to let her back inside. She strode past him and followed Skinner upstairs to get her things. All the while, Mulder kept staring out at what was left of his nemesis and he just couldn't help wondering if she had been a clone.

* * *

**08.12 p.m.  
March 27  
Bayview Road  
Idlewilde  
Virginia**

The warehouse was silent as the grave and almost as dark. No sounds from the outside seemed to penetrate the otherwise thin looking sheet metal walls. The dirty windows high above the floor gave off a sparse, gloomy light, leaving the major part of the warehouse in shadows.

Fox Mulder stopped at a pillar, his gun ready, his senses alert. Somewhere in the shadows, a transaction was about to take place and the FBI had turned out in large numbers to observe and intercept the shipment of the highly dangerous new drug called Crystalstar. The dealers would be here to pick up their priceless shipment.

Scully turned up a few steps to his right, glanced over at him and nodded toward the rear of the building where the transaction was going to take place. He in turn nodded back to her. There were six other agents in the warehouse with them, spread out over an area of roughly 1,500 square feet covered in semi‑darkness with large, concrete pillars at regular intervals. Plenty of hiding places. She gave her partner a questioning look, which he waved off with slight annoyance. Ever since the incident with the shape shifter over three months ago, she had been fussing over him like a nervous hen over her chicks.

Although he had needed her assistance then and was not too unhappy about the increased attention she gave him, he was slightly annoyed that she would almost ask him not to come along on a case like this. He had been through the usual treadmill of going to the counselor twice a week for a month and not dealing with any heavy workloads at first. Not admitting it willingly these days, he had needed both the counselor and the easy duties at the time. But things were back to normal. His nightmares, which had plagued him for the first one and a half month were gone. He slept as easily as he ever had, which might not mean much to other people, but meant a lot to him.

Scully kept an eye on him for a moment, noted how well he handled himself, and decided to give him a break. He had been his old cheerful self for the past month and although she still had him under suspicion for having nightmares on a regular basis after what had happened to him, the flinching and cold sweats when somebody had surprised him or touched him were gone. As always, Fox Mulder had a perfect grip on himself. She smiled briefly, then slipped away into the shadows to resume her designated position.

Mulder couldn't help grinning. She was as concerned about him as he had always been about her. He was starting to understand what she was going through when he overprotected her. Squinting into the semi‑darkness with a frown, he tried to hear sounds that were not made by his colleagues, although the sounds they made were so minimal that one had to know what they were to identify them as people moving in the shadows. Assistant Director Skinner had once again managed to put together a highly professional team.

The thought of his supervisor made Mulder's frown deepen. Even though the change in the man's behavior toward him was very subtle, it was there. Mulder was aware of the reason and couldn't help resenting it a little. He didn't want to win ground with Skinner through pity.

Behind another pillar, Scully stood waiting for the signal which would tell them to break out of this hide and seek business and arrest some crooks. She glanced toward the place where she knew Mulder was and inwardly scolded herself for being so nervous for him. He could handle himself, although he had a tendency to get himself into impossible situations. They had not heard or seen anything of or about the shape shifter after Skinner had blown her away by the cabin.

Scully knew it was irrational to think so, but she couldn't help wondering about the way the body had dissolved. She had seen it before and, usually, when someone, who got killed, disintegrated like that, there were more of the same kind. She was not yet willing to admit to the clone theory, which Mulder was always throwing around, although she found it increasingly hard to deny their existence, too. But it made her wonder if the woman who had died at the cabin had indeed been the same as the one who had attacked Mulder in his own home.

Shaking her head, she pushed those thoughts aside and forced herself to concentrate on the issue at hand. After waiting around for fifteen minutes, the signal was finally given. Seven special agents broke out of the shadows, followed closely by a swat team, and did some very satisfying arrests. Ten pounds of Crystalstar were impounded. The whole thing took less than another fifteen minutes, but it was first by the time that the drug dealers and their contacts were led out of the warehouse to be taken to jail that Scully realized that Mulder wasn't among them anymore.

She looked around while she holstered her gun. "Mulder?" she called, trying to spot him. But he wasn't there. "Mulder," she tried again, a little louder. Turning to one of the other agents near her, she waved him over. "Johnson, have you seen Mulder?"

Johnson glanced around with a frown. "Now that you mention it, no. I haven't. Not since we came in here. Are you sure he came in with us?" he replied.

"Yes, I'm sure. I saw him about half an hour ago," Scully replied, the feeling that something was wrong building in the pit of her stomach. "Mulder," she tried calling again, but still received no reply. "Johnson, could you give me a hand here? Let's just go through the building and see if he got stuck somewhere."

Coltrane stepped up beside her, scanning the warehouse as if looking for Mulder. "I don't see Spooky anywhere. What do you think happened?" he asked, glancing at Scully, his tone full of mockery.

Scully decided not to react to that one. She didn't like Coltrane for one obvious reason. He didn't like Mulder and he abused every opportunity he had to make that clear to Mulder.

"What's the deal, Mrs. Spooky? Too stuck up to talk to me? We're all fellow agents here," Coltrane went on, making it increasingly difficult for Scully to keep her mouth shut.

"Back off, Coltrane," Johnson said good-naturedly. "Can't you behave for even one moment? Let's just find Mulder so we can go home. My wife's throwing a big bash tonight."

"It's just so typical Spooky to have to mess it all up for the rest of us," Coltrane sighed, glancing around indifferently.

Pursing her lips, Scully tried hard to keep her temper at bay. Funny how sensitive she was on Mulder's behalf. "Let's just find him," she finally said, starting to walk forward.

"Maybe he saw a little green alien and followed it," Coltrane mocked with a snide grin.

Scully rolled her eyes as she came to a stop with a sigh. "First of all, Coltrane, they're grey," she told him as she turned around, effectively wiping the grin of his face. "And secondly, Mulder has a much better conduct under raids like this than you do. So back off."

Johnson put a hand on her shoulder. "Ignore him, Dana. You know what he's like when Mulder is around," he told her quietly.

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "Let's just find him. Maybe he banged his head on something." It was an idea. Not a very appealing one, but it was a whole lot better than something else which was trying to worm its way out of her subconscious mind.

* * *

Thirty minutes earlier Mulder had, as Scully had said, been among them right up until the signal was given. When the other agents rushed out of their hiding places, followed closely by the swat team, he however had not moved. And there was a perfectly good explanation for that.

Seconds before, something cold and sharp had been pressed against his neck, right under the base of his head. "Don't move," a voice had whispered. "Don't move or I'll sever your spinal cord from your skull." There had been a distinctly amused undertone to that voice. "Hand me your gun over your left shoulder," the voice insisted. The noise of the arrest had drowned out any chance of anybody but him hearing the whispered words from behind him.

He had done as he was told, the prick of the knife against his neck too serious to ignore. He didn't know who he was up against or what his chances might be of getting away from that person, so he had decided to comply, slightly baffled that anybody would try this in a building full of federal agents. "You're taking an awfully big risk here," he had told the aggressor quietly.

"Shut up. I'll tell you when to start talking," the voice had responded, still in a whisper. A hand reached over his left shoulder and took his gun. "We'll have a long conversation later," the voice went on and there was definitely laughter in it now, "Foxy."

That nickname was one he had never tolerated from anybody. He hated his first name and nobody had called him that for years. Except for one person whom he'd rather forget he had ever met. The identity of the person behind the voice hit him like a ton of bricks and he felt cold sweat break out on his forehead. Then he was slugged heavily across the back of the head and the world went black. The shape shifter squatted down next to her unconscious victim and listened to the rumble further ahead. The agents would be more than pre‑occupied for a while yet. Moving quickly, she tied the unconscious man up with duct tape, loaded him easily over one shoulder and walked out without being seen or heard.

* * *

**9.30 p.m.**

Assistant Director Skinner was not happy. He had arrived at the scene twenty minutes after Scully had called him and he was furious to say the least.

Looking from one to the other, he barely kept himself in check. "How the hell could this happen?" he demanded. "How the hell can one agent disappear in the middle of all this and nobody saw anything?"

"Maybe he got abducted by aliens," Coltrane suggested with a grin.

Skinner glared at him. "You secure that shit," he snarled, angry beyond reason. Coltrane almost winced at the way his supervisor was staring at him. "When you have something constructive to say, you let me know. Otherwise I advise you strongly to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?" Coltrane nodded, not looking at Skinner. "As for the rest of you, the arrest went very well and I commend you all on it. But the fact that one of your colleagues can vanish right under your noses makes me wonder." With a heavy sigh, he had to admit to himself that he had feared something like this might happen one day. If it had been anybody but Mulder, this would probably not have happened. "Get whatever information you can get from this place and get back to the office. Scully, I want to see you in my office as soon as you're done here. I want you on this case."

Scully nodded, worried sick already. Johnson put a hand on her shoulder, leaning in. "Take it easy. We'll find him," he whispered. She smiled, grateful that at least one of them cared.

Skinner left again, returning to the office, while the rest of the team, now fronted by a forensics team, went over the warehouse inch by inch. Scully headed straight for the last place she had seen her partner and took a look around. A few drops of fresh blood on the floor confirmed her suspicions. Squatting next to the droplets on the floor, the still fresh blood on the tip of one finger, she looked around her. "Where are you?" she whispered.

* * *

**10.45 p.m.  
J. Edgar Hoover Building  
Washington, D.C.**

Scully went straight to Skinner's office after riding back with Johnson. Skinner asked her to sit down, then fell silent for a moment, not looking at her. "Scully," he finally said. "Nobody knows what happened to Mulder three months ago other than you and myself. If we put anybody else on this case, we will necessarily have to inform them about it." The alarmed look on Scully's face made him raise his hands. "However," he soothed her, "I'm going to give you a chance to track him down on your own. I hope you have some idea where to start. I'm giving you the statutory forty-eight hours to come up with a lead before I will have to put other agents on the case. If it comes to that, I want to know from you which agents you want to work with. I'm not assigning anybody to this case that might use it against Mulder afterwards. And I think we both know who I'm talking about."

"Yes, sir. Thank you," Scully replied. "I'll come up with something. And I don't think we have to worry about a big investigation if he doesn't turn up over the next two days." It pained her to have to admit this, but it was a fact. If they didn't find him soon, he would probably be dead. The likelihood of finding him alive after two days was increasingly small.

Skinner didn't look happy about that. "I hate to admit it, but you're right," he agreed. "So, you better get on it and find him. Whatever resources you need, just ask."

Scully nodded and rose again. "Sir . . ." she started, not certain how to finish. They both had the same idea about who had done this and neither was really willing to admit it.

"I know," he replied, sparing her from having to put her thoughts in words. "Just find him, Scully. Find him before it's too late."

She nodded and left the office again. Life would be stressful for the next few days and the thought that she might not find him in time made her stomach cramp up. She had a few leads she wanted to follow up on and there were a few people she needed to see. She opened the door to the office and was instantly assaulted by the heavy aroma of cigarettes in the air.

Her eyes narrowed while she stared at the tall man standing with his back to the door, staring at Mulder's favorite poster. He turned around when the door opened.

"Agent Scully," he said. "I am here to see agent Mulder. He isn't with you?" he inquired, glancing past her for a second before his eyes again settled on her.

Scully almost snapped at him, but got a grip on herself. His odd obsession with Mulder could be used to her advantage right now. "No. He wouldn't be, would he?" she replied, testing the waters to see if he knew anything.

The smoker looked rather perplexed by her reply. "Is there something I should know?" he asked, his usual manner a little subdued.

Scully stared at him, her expression tense. "Agent Mulder is missing in action," she said tersely. "As if you didn't know that."

That caused a definite reaction. He stared at her, unwilling to accept what she had just said. "Is that so?" He tried to stay calm, but found it oddly difficult to do so. "And how has he gone missing?"

Aggravated, Scully took a step closer. "Don't tell me that this is news to you," she said, her voice icy. "The stake‑out and subsequent arrest of drug dealers this evening created a perfect backdrop for his disappearance. We found blood on the floor, which means he's hurt. I have forty-eight hours to find him, but if I don't find him within the next twenty-four . . ." she went on, but trailed off again, leaving the rest to his imagination. Shaking her head in annoyance, she took a step back again. After another scowling look at him, she turned around and hammered the door shut behind her as she walked away. It would be no surprise to her if he started his own investigation and in general, that was what she had hoped to achieve.

The smoker looked after her, suddenly deeply concerned. He justified it to himself by thinking that it would be a bad thing if Mulder vanished in the middle of everything. He decided to take things into his own hands once again in an attempt to aide Scully in her search for Mulder.

* * *

**Location unknown  
Time unknown**

He woke up with a pounding headache. It was completely dark where he was, which for a moment made him wonder if he had gone blind. His legs were numb and his shoulders felt as if they had been pulled from their sockets. Shifting a little, he tried to figure out why that was. Then he realized why he felt that way. His wrists and ankles were tied up, with duct-tape as far as he could tell. And not only that. His ankles and wrists had then been tied together behind his back, which accounted for him feeling the way he did.

Groaning, he gingerly flexed his fingers, hissing silently at the stinging feeling that created in his hands and lower arms. "Damn," he grumbled under his breath, gave the whole thing a good yank and managed to at least break the connecting tape between his wrists and ankles.

Carefully, he stretched his legs out and winced when his right leg almost cramped up. He eased more carefully into the stretch and was finally able to roll over on his side and raise his aching head. There wasn't much sense in that, though. He couldn't see anything. With an effort and a spasm-like cramp in his right shoulder which drew a sound of suffering from him, he managed to sit up. Keeping his shoulder still for a moment, he concentrated on relaxing the muscles there, then carefully rolled both shoulders a few times.

Before he had a chance to realize what was going on, a boot hit him quite hard right between the shoulder blades, throwing him forward onto the floor. His chin connected squarely with the concrete floor, clicking his teeth painfully hard together. Holding his breath, he waited for a second attack, but nothing happened. Groaning, he gingerly rolled over on one side and slowly sat up again. He blinked into the darkness, trying to hear the other person. His headache had increased with the sudden attack and he briefly allowed himself to close his eyes in an attempt to concentrate on reducing that pain.

At that very moment, the second attack came. A fist was hammered hard against his right temple, throwing him back down on the floor, the so far thudding pain in his head exploding in an inferno of noise. Moaning, he decided he didn't want to try and sit up again. Whoever his tormentor was, that person obviously didn't want him to sit up. He pressed his forehead against the cool floor, his eyes closed, hoping against hope that the attacker would leave him alone.

No such luck. Suddenly, fingers wrapped themselves into his hair, right over the gash he had received when he had been knocked out. The grip was quite tight and he flinched at the pain, having no other option than to follow that hand when it started pulling his head up. The movement stopped and he realized too late what was going on. His head was suddenly shoved down with such force that he didn't think he would have been able to stop the movement even if he had been prepared for it. His forehead collided with the concrete and the darkness once again engulfed him completely.

* * *

Sometime later, he woke up again. Blinking heavily, he winced at the pain in his head which had tensed up his neck muscles so much, he could barely move his head. A concussion. He knew the signs and this was definitely it. The slight nausea, the swimming feeling, the general feeling of discomfort. To his surprise, he realized that his hands were free. He shoved them under himself and pushed up, moaning when his stomach protested that kind of movement by lurching all over the place. Swallowing hard a couple of times, he let himself sink back down on the floor, giving up on the immediate inclination to get up again.

Something had changed. At first he couldn't figure it out. His head was hurting too badly. Then he realized that it was no longer dark. He could see the room he was in. He carefully rolled onto his back and closed his eyes again for a minute, trying to get the swaying feeling under control. Then he looked up at the ceiling of what he could only consider to be a basement room. He had no idea where he was, but he had a pretty good idea who his attacker was.

* * *

**J. Edgar Hoover Building  
Washington, D.C.  
March 28  
09.00 a.m.**

A.D. Skinner stared ahead of himself for a moment, the report on his desk making him very unhappy. The three guys they had arrested the previous night, who had brought the drug into town, had sworn that the shipment had been ten pounds exactly. That made Skinner wonder where the remaining one pound had vanished to, since they had only retrieved nine pounds of the drug. Shaking his head, he didn't want to know the implications of that. He knew what Crystalstar could do to people and that it was highly addictive. So highly that people got addicted to it after one shot. The drug they had repossessed was so concentrated, that it could kill in small doses. In general, he figured they had for about ten million dollars of that drug on their hands and the fact that one pound of it was missing made him very concerned.

And then there was that thing about Mulder. He didn't like the implications of what Scully had more or less suggested, but he had to agree that the possibility existed. Thinking back to that evening when that woman had come to the cabin made him frown. He had known how to kill her because he had received specific written instructions on it. A typed page with no indication of where it had come from but for a faint smell of cigarette smoke which had made Skinner realize its origin. He just didn't understand why. Except for the obvious yet odd fact that the Cigarette-Smoking Man was protecting Mulder. Not effectively, but he was doing his share to keep the younger man safe.

Skinner leaned back on his chair, folded his hands and frowned. If he was reading this right, the Cigarette-Smoking Man might even help them find Mulder this time around. Pursing his lips, he figured that even that kind of help was better than no help. He just hoped that nobody was being held accountable for it afterward.

He himself had learned his lesson. He would never ask the Smoker for a favor again. Although it had paid off in the end, he was far from certain that it had been his involvement that had saved Scully. More likely it had been Mulder's relentless search for a cure which had eventually saved her life.


	4. Chapter 4

**09.35 a.m.  
The basement office**

Dana Scully pulled her reading glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had been working all night, trying to find a clue to where Mulder could be. But, so far, she had come up with nothing. And her hope of finding her partner alive was dwindling with every passing hour.

A heavy sigh escaped her as she leaned back, stretching some of the fatigue out of her limbs. In the process, she turned her chair a little and glanced toward the door. Something she had not previously noticed was lying on the floor. A folded piece of paper.

More than a little surprised and yet eager to find out what it was, she got off her chair and grabbed the page. An address was written on the top corner and that was it.

380, Oak Hill Drive, Oak Hill, Virginia.

Frowning, she wondered if that was where Mulder was or if this was a place where she could get information about it. She grabbed the phone, dialed an internal number and picked up a pen. "Yes, hi, Frank. It's Dana. Listen, could you help me out here? I've got an address and I don't have a name to go with it." She tapped the pen on the desk. "Yes, it's 380, Oak Hill Drive, Oak Hill, Virginia. - Sure, I'll hold." Her eyes never left the paper and she didn't notice the shadow under the door which briefly lingered there, then vanished again. "Yes? - Nobody, huh? How long has it been empty?" She heaved a deep breath. "Okay, thanks, Frank. You've been a big help." With that, she hung up again.

So nobody was living in that house, huh? She would believe that when she saw it. Determined to get there as fast as possible, she almost forgot one important issue. She would have to inform Skinner of her plans.

* * *

**Location unknown**

Mulder had stared up at the ceiling of the basement room until his eyes hurt. Nothing happened and he felt fairly okay as long as he didn't move too much. Longing for some water, he slowly turned his head, trying to see if there was anything to drink in the area. But he saw nothing but dull grey walls and dull grey floor and dull grey ceiling. And the door, of course. Moving as slowly as he could, he sat up, ready to drop back down if his stomach showed the slightest sign of getting upset. But so far, all he got was a low rumble because he was actually hungry.

He had barely sat up before the door opened. Standing there in the open doorway with a porcelain pitcher in one hand and a glass in the other was a woman he didn't recognize.

"Thirsty?" she asked, her tone of voice concerned. She was beautiful with a head full of blond hair and the most amazing blue eyes he had ever seen.

He gingerly nodded his head and she came over to him and squatted down, her eyes regarding him thoughtfully. She poured him a glass of water and handed it over. "Boy, that's one hell of a bump you've got there," she said, inspecting his bruised forehead.

"It hurts, too," he replied after having taken a sip of the water. "Where am I? How did I ... get here?" he wanted to know.

"You were brought here. By her," she replied, nodding toward the open door. There was nobody there.

Mulder frowned and winced at the same time as he glanced toward the door. "Who her?" he asked and started to get up.

"Me, silly," she replied. She had turned her head toward the door and now she turned it back, that snide grin on her lips. Her features changed, her hair color changed. Her eyes didn't just change color, though. The pupil also changed shape, becoming star-shaped. "You know, Foxy," she said, her tone suddenly deep. "I thought I'd lost you. But here you are, back again." With that remark, she whipped the pitcher toward him.

It connected squarely with the side of his head and shattered into a thousand pieces, drenching him and restoring his headache to new heights. He hit the floor again, grabbing his head with both hands, moaning in pain.

"What's the matter, Fox? Can't take a little abuse?" she cooed. "You know, I thought I'd done you as much harm as I possibly could, but it seems that I have not. You don't cower in fear before me." Sighing, she put her hands on her hips, staring down at him. Her pupils expanded and contracted with every heartbeat, giving the impression of a pulsing star. With venom in her eyes, she hammered the toe of her right cowboy boot into his mid-section, causing him to lose what remaining air he had in his lungs in one great gasp.

He fought for a moment to regain his breath while the pain was pulsing and pounding away inside his skull and now also in his stomach.

"You disappoint me, sweetie," she said, shaking her head in annoyance. "You know, I think I've got something that can rectify this situation quite elegantly. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back," she said, walked around him and stabbed the toe of her boot into the small of his back with enough force to almost paralyze him with pain.

After a few seconds that seemed like years to him, he finally managed to gulp down a dearly needed breath of air. Gasping, he eased into a stretch and finally managed to pull himself together enough to get up on his hands and knees. Keeping his head down for a moment, he tried to estimate if the damage was only superficial or if she had harmed him internally with those kicks. It didn't seem like it, although it felt that way right now. What he most needed right now was to get up so he could get the drop on her and get out of here. The faster, the better. He managed to get to his feet. Doubled up in pain from both his back and his mid-section, he had grabbed his knees to keep from keeling over again. He forced air into his lungs and then slowly rose, frantically blinking away black spots swirling in the air in front of his eyes. With every breath he took, they diminished. Staggering a little, he started toward the door, reaching out for the door knob.

The door opened with enough force to knock him off his feet. He hit the floor on his back and was able to avoid the first attack by rolling out of the way. The next one hit him hard on the left shoulder, a fire spreading rapidly down through his arm from where the metal-baseball bat had hit him.

The third hit she never managed to administer. He pushed himself around and hammered both feet into her abdomen, throwing her backwards, making her drop the bat. Mulder was on his feet in a flurry, grabbed the bat and raised it.

And that was when her shape-shifting abilities got in his way. She had shifted again and although he knew the now eight-year old girl cowering on the floor wasn't who his eyes told him it was, he just couldn't hit her. Pale as a ghost, he lowered the bat and stumbled a few steps backward, staring at the shivering form on the floor with hate and sadness fighting for dominance inside him.

"God damn it, what did I ever do to you?" he wheezed, holding his left arm against his body. His shoulder was hurting too badly for him to move it. It was probably broken. But the physical pain he was in was overshadowed by the mental pain she was causing him by posing as his sister. His strength was ebbing away quickly and eventually, his legs gave in and he dropped down on his knees, leaning heavily on the bat.

She shape-shifted back to her original form and stared at him. "You're just such a good victim, Fox," she said as ways of explaining why she was putting him through hell. "You've always been a victim. All your life. First your mother's resentment toward you, then your father's, then everybody's. You suffer so well. If that was taken away from you, you would be nothing."

Exhausted from the pain and the constant pounding in his head, he closed his eyes for a second. "Fuck you," he growled and raised his head. "What the hell have I ever done to you? Why did you pick me? Did you just wake up one morning and decided to make my life a living hell?"

She grinned. It was an evil expression. Obsessive, possessive and full of foreboding of the worst kind. "There's that suffering bit again," she said, slowly getting up. "You should know by now, Fox, that you can't hurt me without jeopardizing your own life. You've been subjected to the retro‑virus before. You remember what it was like. Don't you?"

He struggled back to his feet, wanting nothing more than to lie down and just sleep until it all went away. He was so tired, so exhausted. "I don't care anymore," he said, raising the bat threateningly when she took a step toward him. "I've been pushed around enough and I don't give a shit anymore. Just leave me the hell alone." The latter he yelled although it hurt his head. He obviously could not get his point across in any other manner.

Her shoulders rose at the same time as she lowered her head a little and that gave her a predatory look. "But you care about Dana, don't you?" she asked sweetly. "Dana is on her way here. Once she's here, I'll teach her some real suffering. I'll make her suffer so much it'll drive her mad." His anger was obvious to her. She didn't need to hurt him physically to administer pain. "I'll tip her over the edge and she'll end her life in an institution, completely off her rocker. Too dangerous to set free and too well to kill. She'll end her days where she fears to end them the most. Among psychotics. I read her mind when I knocked her out in your apartment."

He let out a half‑hearted sound of anguish, his face twisted in pain. "You won't touch her," he snarled, threw the bat aside and lunged for her throat. It was only at the last second that he realized his mistake. She had provoked him and had made him forget for a second how dangerous she was. Enough time for her to bring out a syringe which she embedded in his left shoulder the second he collided with her. The force of his forward motion helped her inject the pink liquid in the syringe into him before he had a chance to stop it. Staggering back, he yanked the needle out of his shoulder again and stared at her. "What the hell was that?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, just about ten cc's of Crystalstar. You're a junkie now," she said with a satisfied smirk. "Just for good measure I'll beat the crap out of you before your precious Dana turns up here. She won't know that anything's wrong until you start getting the withdrawal symptoms and by that time, it'll be too late. She'll have to supply you with more of the drug to keep you sane."

Mulder stared at the syringe in his hand, then managed a wavering smile. "You don't become an addict from one doze," he said, looking up to meet her eyes.

"Of this stuff, you do. Haven't you read the paperwork?" she asked and with a smile shape‑ shifted into one of the newest members of Skinner's team. She hadn't been a part of the stakeout, but she had been there at the meetings. "You see, Fox? You can't hide from me. I've been keeping an eye on you for the past month. You never knew it was me, did you?"

Mulder had read the paperwork on this new drug, but he had been the first to refuse to believe that the drug would make an addict out of anybody this fast. Shaking his head, he took a step backward, the syringe falling out of his hand. It shattered on the floor. "No," he whispered and swallowed hard. The world was slowly taking on a strange focus.

* * *

**9.55 a.m.  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

Skinner looked up when Scully stepped into his office. "Anything?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, sir. I've got an address. I'm going there right now," she said.

Skinner frowned immediately. "Where did you get that address from, agent Scully?" he demanded, already knowing what she would say.

"I'm not sure. It was lying just inside the door this morning. But I think it's from ... him. I ran into him in our office last night and I hinted that Mulder was missing. He seemed upset about it, so I told him what had happened, strongly suggesting that he was involved. And then I find this piece of paper on the floor," she explained, handing the paper over.

Skinner took it and stared at the address for a moment. Then he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I think you're right. It must be from him. I take it you've checked on the address already?" Scully nodded. "And nobody lives there," he added. With that, he got up, grabbed his suit jacket and shrugged into it. "I'm coming with you. You're not going out there on your own. Just in case."

Scully stared at him, not liking the implications of his words, but grateful that she did not have to go alone. Just in case.

* * *

**380, Oak Hill Drive  
Oak Hill, Virginia  
10.15 a.m.**

The shape shifter watched as her victim dropped back down on his knees, blinking frantically to get his vision back under control. All the while, he tried to keep her in his line of sight.

Grinning, she got to her feet and slowly approached him. "What's the matter, Fox? Can't see straight?" she cooed and hammered a fist into his face, thereby knocking him backwards. "You're going to hurt, my friend, and once this stuff kicks in, you'll hurt real bad. It intensifies every feeling you have, yet makes you rather impassive." Explaining this to him made no difference right now. She knew that. She wasn't even sure she had gotten it right how the drug worked, but that didn't really matter. She was enjoying herself immensely.

For the next half hour, she beat the crap out of him. Partially using her fists and feet and partially the bat, which she had picked up again, she nearly battered him into oblivion, virtually thriving on his cries of pain. Eventually, she took a timeout to catch her breath, the thrill of hurting someone making her body tingle. She just stood there for a moment, staring down at the writhing heap of human misery and smiled. The ultimate high she always got from this was when she killed them, though. Although it hadn't been her plan to kill this one, she was too tempted to put an end to his suffering right now. Inhaling deeply, she raised the bat up over her head, ready to bring it crashing down on his head. He might survive the blow, but he would never again be able to use his mind for anything interesting.

He moaned, trying desperately to get beyond the debilitating pain so he could get out of her way, but he just couldn't make his limbs move.

She saw his feeble attempt to save his life and the smile widened into a grin. "Sorry, Fox. I didn't intend for it to end like this, but I just get a kick out of killing. Can't help it," she told him.

Her attempt to bring the bat down on his head was stopped, though. It seemed to be stuck on something. She pulled at it and it was yanked out of her hands pretty brutally. Surprised, she turned around to face a dark-haired woman about her height, dressed completely in black, standing behind her with the bat in one hand. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her expression showing nothing of the glee she previously had been feeling.

"You better start running, Shael," a deep, slightly hoarse voice told her. "And run fast. You know I can catch up with you." Under a mane of erratic dark-brown curls a pair of deep, brown eyes were staring hatefully at her. "Run, girl," she repeated. Shael did not have to be told twice. With obvious fear in her eyes, she rushed out the door and was gone.

The newcomer squatted down next to Mulder and reached a hand out toward him. He flinched back, but she merely brushed blood-soaked hair away from his bruised brow. "Easy," she whispered. "Your friends are on the way, Fox. They'll be here soon. They'll take care of you." With that, she rose again. "I've got myself a freak to catch," she added darkly, turned around and left.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Skinner stopped the car in front of the abandoned house of 380, Oak Hill Drive. It looked pretty new, but the garden surrounding it was a wilderness. With their guns drawn, Scully and Skinner approached the house, keeping their senses alert for any disturbance. But everything was quiet.

Scully grabbed the door knob and opened the front door. The house was quiet when she stepped inside. Glancing at Skinner, she moved forward. The house wasn't that big and consisted only of the ground floor and the basement. After checking the ground floor, Scully moved toward the stairs leading down to the basement. It was still quiet and the ground floor showed no signs of inhabitants other than the fact that the dust had been disturbed recently.

Scully moved slowly down the stairs, ready for the worst, but reached the end of the stairs without incident. "Mulder?" she called, hoping that he was here.

A groan reached her, which made her freeze for a second. "Mulder?" she tried again, a little louder. She walked toward the only open door and stopped short.

There he was. She completely forgot all safety regulations when she holstered her gun and closed the distance between them, dropping down on her knees next to him. "Oh my God," she whispered. He was a mess. "Skinner," she yelled and heard him come down the steps. "Take it easy, Mulder. We'll get you out of here," she soothed her half unconscious partner.

Skinner turned up in the doorway, glanced around the bare room, then focused on Mulder. A brief twitch at the corner of his mouth was the only thing disclosing how he felt about the situation. He, too, holstered his gun, dug out his cell phone and called for the paramedics.

While they waited, he surveyed the scene. There wasn't much here except for the bloodied baseball bat.

In the backyard of the house, up on a wooden fence, the dark-haired woman was sitting, watching the house. When the ambulance came and the paramedics ran inside, she slipped down on the other side and walked toward a parked car. She sneered like an animal when she saw the flat tires. So her little friend had decided to try and delay her. Tough luck. She could still outrun her. Her deer brown eyes glittered in the morning sun, her expression one of utter concentration as she stared across the field which stretched for almost a mile toward the horizon. Then she smiled and started running, moving more like a cat than a human being.

* * *

**2.30 p.m.  
North-West Georgetown  
Washington, D.C.**

After a painful and nearly fatal trip to the hospital and the subsequent rush to save his life, Mulder was finally left alone. With a major concussion, a broken left shoulder, three broken ribs and almost every inch of his body bruised, he briefly wished they would just let him die. But, the worst had probably been when they had re‑located his jaw. One of the hits of the baseball bat had squarely pushed his jaw out of the joint. It had hurt at the time, but it hurt a hell of a lot more when the doctors shoved it back where it belonged. His right jaw line had swelled out of proportions, making it almost impossible for him to speak, let alone open his mouth. The constant thudding in his head with every heartbeat nearly drove him insane, but he knew somewhere in the back of his head that they couldn't give him any medication for any of it before they knew he was over the hill. He had almost died in the ambulance and only Scully's insistent demands that he should stay with her had held him back.

Scully sat next to the bed now, watching him. She was tired. That was obvious. But she would not allow herself to rest until she knew he was out of the woods. She took his hand and gave it a light squeeze, not wanting to cause him unnecessary pain. "Look at you," she almost whispered. He blinked heavily at her, wishing by God that he didn't hurt so much. "You're a mess."

He wanted to respond to it, but he could barely keep himself awake. He knew he had to due to the concussion, but it was so hard. He just wanted to sleep so badly. To close his eyes and just drift away. Besides, his jaw sent a burst of pain through him every time he even moved his tongue. His eyes slid shut almost against his will.

"Mulder, you have to stay awake," Scully urged him. "Come on, you can do it. You're tough." Brushing a hand through his hair, she smiled when he opened his eyes again, the pain in them obvious. "I know it's hard, but you have to try. You're not out of the woods yet."

* * *

**08.30 a.m.  
March 30**

Mulder woke up after having been out for nearly two days. He felt awful in every sense. And there was no release from the pain. His jaw hurt like hell, his shoulder was sending pulses of debilitating pain through him with every beat of his heart. He believed he could feel every bruise, every scratch on his body. And his head felt like it was going to explode. Groaning, he moved his head a little and froze when that only increased the pain. He wanted to grind his teeth together, but even the thought of what that would do to his jaw made him flinch. Only one thing was going through his head. He wanted to pass out again, to slip back into the comforting darkness.

"Mulder?" Scully leaned over him, smiling when she found he was awake. "How are you?" she added, then noted the glassy sheen to his eyes. "Are you in pain?" she wanted to know, glancing away for a second. He nodded weakly and flinched painfully. That brought a frown to her face. "You shouldn't be. You're on some pretty heavy pain killers." She straightened up and checked the drop, then the bag and found that none of it was faulty. Not at all happy about this, she decided to take it up with his doctor once the man had the decency to appear. "Just take it easy. I'll just see if I can't find your doctor."

"Scully," he managed in a weak whisper. She stopped moving and leaned closer again. "Crystal ... star," he added hoarsely, blinking heavily at the pain these words caused him to speak.

The frown on her face deepened. "What about Crystalstar?" she wanted to know.

"On ... it."

Her confusion was hard to ignore. She stared at him for a moment, unable to respond to that. "You're on it?" she then asked, wanting to confirm what she had just heard. "What do you mean, you're on it? Mulder, you don't do drugs," she went on with a shake of her head.

"No," he breathed, too tired and too much in pain to actually talk. "Forced." He could only manage so much and the flaring pain in his jaw made him close his eyes hard, a single tear trickling from the corner of his eye. It hurt so bad it made him cry.

"You were forced?" Scully asked, deeply concerned. Weakly, he nodded once. "She gave you an injection? She stole that extra pound that was missing and gave you an injection?" Again, a vague nod was the only reply he could give. Pressing a hand over her mouth, Scully sat down on the chair she had already spent so much time on. This was very bad. After thinking about it for a moment, she grabbed his hand. "Don't worry. We'll deal with it," she assured him, not certain they could. According to what she knew about this drug, the addicts went through hell when coming off it and she wasn't so sure her partner would survive that. Not in his present state. It would be hard enough to get through if you were fairly healthy. But he had almost died two days ago. Needless to say that he would not be able to handle coming down from the high the drug was necessarily giving him. And if it was as highly addictive as was claimed, Scully feared for his future.

* * *

10.15 a.m.

Skinner slowed down when he neared Mulder's room and saw Scully sitting outside. She looked worried, deeply troubled. Stopping next to her chair, he looked down at her for a moment, slowly becoming aware that she had not noticed him. "How is our patient today?" he finally asked.

Scully jerked, then looked up at him. "Oh, I didn't see you there," she said, sounding a little flustered. "He's ... uhm ... not doing so good."

Skinner sat down next to her. "What is that supposed to mean? I thought his vital signs had stabilized," he replied, slightly concerned now.

"Well, both yes and no. He's in terrible pain. I was rather confused about this when I found out. He's getting enough painkillers to knock out a rhino, but he's still in pain. It turns out that this ... female gave him an injection of 10 cc's of Crystalstar."

Staring at her, the assistant director found that rather hard to fathom. "10 cc's? That's ... a lot," he commented, a little taken aback.

"Yes, it's a lot. Why he hasn't O.D.'ed on it I don't know. He should have been dead. Fact is, though, that he's not and this drug is obviously enhancing sensitivity when it's working its way out of the system again. He was tripping when we found him. As it was his first doze of the drug, it has taken his body rather long to get off the trip again. And now he's crashing. He feels everything twice as strong and that puts him in a world of hurt no matter what we do to subdue it. The only thing that has worked so far is sedating him so strongly that he virtually passes out. But it's not good for his system. It's not good for his heart. I'm afraid of the consequences. Of the permanent damage it can do to him."

Staring ahead of herself for a moment, she could not help thinking of the one solution to all this. "He can't deal with both getting over this attack and getting off the drug at the same time. It's just not humanly possible. And he's still not out of the woods. If the pain increases . . ." She shook her head, not sure how to say what was on her mind "...he could very well go into cardiac arrest in no time."

"In other words, you think he's dying," Skinner compensated. Scully nodded solemnly. "Damn," he mumbled.

"Yes," Scully agreed. "And I think that the fact that she's still out there also has an influence on him wanting to live or die."

Skinner pursed his lips for a moment. "That's just the thing. We have eyewitness accounts from the area that a dark-haired woman beat the life out of her with a branch. One guy who wanted to help her, died of the retro-virus. And the dark-haired woman apparently vanished back into the woodwork after making sure that this ... female was dead. Our perpetrator supposedly disintegrated into a green slush."

That piece of information didn't do much for Scully. "So, another one of them is dead. We still don't know if there are more out there."

"I don't think there are," Skinner cut in. "Our Cigarette-Smoking friend turned up in my office this morning. He was pretty damned upset about losing his precious clones. He virtually said as much. I asked him what the hell he was talking about and he clamped up and retreated again. I got the distinct impression that he was the one who has sent this ... thing after Mulder."

Frowning, Scully tried to find head or tail in all this. "It doesn't make sense. I think he was the one who gave me the address. Why would he do that if he didn't want us to kill that woman? I mean, we didn't. But someone sure did."

Leaning back on the chair, Skinner stared thoughtfully at the wall across from them. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

* * *

**02.00 p.m.**

The concept of pain had always been awkward to him. He didn't like pain. Not the physical kind and not the mental kind. He knew there were some people who got off on being in pain, on suffering, on being dependent on others, but he didn't share that sentiment. He hated being dependent on others. He hated being in pain. He had been there often enough, but this time it was different.

Apart from the pain which no painkiller could subdue successfully, he knew he was also hooked on that drug. The mere thought that he would become an addict after just one shot of it, no matter how big that shot had been, was a mystery to him. One he however spared fairly little time thinking about at the moment.

His mind was a blur. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. Nothing in the world mattered other than the steady, pulsing, burning pain. For the first time in his life, he could honestly say that he wanted to die. He didn't know how much longer he could take the pain which was renewed with every heartbeat, every breath he took. His jaw hurt worse than anything he had ever experienced and due to that his jaw muscles cramped up and that increased the pain even more.

A light shiver ran through him with every beat of his heart and he felt incredibly hot. And somewhere in the back of his head, he knew he could seek release from at least some of the pain. But he had no way of getting to the drug. No way of getting out of this bed. Moaning silently, he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on other things than the pain and the need he felt.

* * *

**03.35 p.m.  
Evidence room  
J. Edgar Hoover Building   
Washington, D.C.**

Skinner stood there in front of a door he very rarely went through, staring ahead of himself for a moment, deep in thought. What he was about to do, on the insistence of Scully, was highly irregular and definitely illegal. He didn't like it, but he had seen her point. It was a necessary evil they had to go through if they wanted Mulder to survive this latest clash.

He grabbed the door knob and opened the door, stepping through to the corridor and the office beyond. The caretaker of the evidence room looked up, a little startled at first to see Skinner here. "Sir, good afternoon," he said, getting up from behind his desk and approached the office window.

"Winston," Skinner replied with a nod. "I need to take a look at the evidence from our latest bust. Somebody told me there might be more than a pound of that Crystalstar-stuff missing."

Winston Frank was an elderly man. He had known Skinner for a long time and he knew something was up when the assistant director himself came to check something like that. "Inside-job?" he asked and Skinner nodded absentmindedly. "Not good, that," he went on and dug out the paperwork. "According to this there should be nine pounds. It was weighed and tagged by ... " he ran a finger over the list "...agent Coltrane."

"That's what I figured," Skinner said, nodding solemnly. "Give me a minute to check it out. Do you have a scale?"

Winston handed over a scale, not at all happy about the possibility that his paperwork could be wrong. He didn't like that one bit. "Want some help?"

"No, I've got it," Skinner said and continued down the corridor to the evidence room.

* * *

**03.50 p.m.**

Winston looked up again when Skinner returned fifteen minutes later and handed over the scale. "Just as I thought. You've got eight and a half pounds of that stuff in there. Not nine. Correct it in your file, Winston. I'll take care of Coltrane."

Skinner's expression was tense, angry, and Winston couldn't blame him. "Sure thing, sir," he replied.

"And not a word of this to anybody, you hear? I want to know if this was a mistake first. I don't want a lot of false accusations floating around here. We've got enough of that as it is." With those words, he strode back out, giving Winton no chance to ask for a signature.

Winston felt a little flustered at the whole thing, not certain he would be able to explain this to anybody, but then again, usually he had to explain himself to Skinner when somebody tried to pull a fast one on him. And he found it highly unlikely that assistant director Skinner would have done anything illegal. Content in his opinion of the other man, Winston returned to his desk and his newspaper. There was no sense in getting all worked up about nothing.

* * *

**05.30 p.m.  
North-West Georgetown**

Scully looked up when Skinner stepped into the room. Mulder was out cold. He had been out cold for a few hours now, heavily sedated to give him a little peace. Skinner waved her over and when she reached him, he pressed a package into her hand. "Do whatever you think you have to do, Scully. But let it be noted that I'm not happy about this," he told her quietly.

"Neither am I, sir, but I don't see any other option right now. I wish there was another way to do it. But if he keeps on hurting like this, he'll die," she replied.

Staring tensely at her, he tried to estimate the result of all this and found that he couldn't. "I hope you know what you're doing, Scully. This goes against everything I believe in. I've been on drugs. It was fun at first, but it quickly became a living hell. As soon as he's out of the woods, Scully, I want him admitted into a detox‑program. And I don't care how much he dislikes the idea."

Scully nodded. "I don't think he'll put up a fight there. Mulder's view on drugs is the same as yours. He'll go willingly," she assured him.

Skinner glanced over at Mulder and thought his own somber thoughts on that subject. He knew from experience how much a person could change under the influence of mind-altering drugs. And as far as he could assess, Crystalstar still had a lot of side effects that were undocumented. "Let's hope so," he said. "I'm going back to the office. Call me if there's any change."


	5. Chapter 5

**08.30 a.m.  
March 31**

When it came down to it, Scully hesitated. As long as Mulder was out cold, there was no sense in giving him the drug. But she knew it wouldn't last. As soon as he woke up, she knew he was in over his head. Mainly because of the way he woke up.

For almost an hour he had been moving restlessly, moaning under his breath, jerking every time he tried to move either his jaw or his left shoulder. The shoulder was still too swollen to be put in a cast and the bandage didn't do much to keep it still. A sudden cease in movement made Scully rise from the chair and lean over him to check his signs. Making a face at his bruised and battered visage, she reached a hand out to brush her fingers through hair, but froze when his eyes suddenly snapped open.

He stared up at her for a long moment, not moving at all, and she could tell that he was in pain. Bad pain. And then he started shaking. It came like lightning from a clear sky. He whimpered, unable to control the convulsive fit which shook his body violently. His left hand suddenly grabbed Scully's wrist and the pressure became almost unbearable when his fingers cramped up spasmodically. His jaw muscles cramped up immediately after that and that pushed him over the top. He screamed. Unable to open his mouth, it sounded pitiful.

Scully pressed a finger against the call button several times, then tried to hold him down while also trying to disengage her left wrist from his painfully hard grip. "God damn it," she hissed through clenched teeth at the sheer power she had to put into holding him, then turned her attention to the door as it opened and two nurses came rushing in. "Get over here," she snapped.

One of nurses took one look at the scene and ran for more help and to call the doctor. The other came over to help Scully hold Mulder down. The bed was vibrating with the force of his convulsions.

For half an hour, they fought to subdue him and finally managed to do so. The convulsions became less violent and eventually subsided entirely. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed, tears oozing out from behind closed lids. Scully grabbed a handkerchief and dabbed the tears away, then brushed a hand through his sweat soaked hair, pushing it away from his forehead. She wanted to help him more than anything in the world right now. But before she could do anything, she had to hear the verdict of his doctor.

Doctor Styles stood at the foot of the bed, staring at his patient with a frown. "The blood tests came back positive on the drug test we did, although we don't know what kind of drug he's on," he finally said to Scully, turning his head a little to look directly at her.

Scully stared at him for a moment, then returned her attention to Mulder. "He's on Crystalstar. Is that what caused the convulsion?" she wanted to know.

Dr. Styles heaved a deep breath and sighed. "He convulsed because he's crashing at the moment. I've had a few of the first cases of drug addicts dependent on that stuff and it's never a pretty a sight. How long has he been on it?"

Scully kept on stroking his hair, her left hand holding his in a firm grip. His fingers twitched weakly now and again, giving her a much needed sign that he was still with them. "He received an injection of 10 cc's against his will. That's all," she replied, glancing at Styles.

Styles in turn raised an eyebrow. "He should have been dead," he mumbled, surprised. "Agent Scully. Can I have a word outside?"

Scully looked at him for a second, then leaned closer to Mulder. "I'll be right back. Don't worry. I promised you we'd deal with this and we will," she whispered to him. A brief tightening of his fingers around her hand made her smile sadly. "It's all right. We'll beat this. I'll be with you every step of the way. I promise." With that, she released his hand and followed the doctor out.

Styles didn't look happy. Not at all. "Agent Scully," he said, shaking his head in regret already. "I'm afraid that he won't be able to survive another attack like that. Due to the heavy sedation and the stress he's been under, his vital signs are unstable to put it mildly. Another convulsive fit like that will kill him. Is there any next of kin you want to notify?"

Scully stared at him, unable to believe that they would just give up on Mulder that easily. "Excuse me, Dr. Styles," she said, her tone of voice conveying her disappointment. "There must be something you can do."

Styles shook his head. "I'm afraid not. None of the conventional pain killers can subdue the kind if pain he's in due to the drug he's on and the heavy pain killers are, as you very well know, not good for his system. If we give them to him, his heart will weaken and you know yourself where that will lead him. He will go into cardiac arrest and we will have to hook him up to machines to keep him alive. As far as I know, that's not what he wants according to his will. If we don't give them to him, the pain will wear him out and eventually kill him. And all because a person addicted to Crystalstar feels everything twice as strongly when they crash. I'm afraid our options are very limited and they will both have the same result. Death."

Having it tossed in her face like that made Scully angry. She didn't like being told that there were no chances. Especially not when it came to Mulder. "What if," she began, not looking at him but rather at a spot on the floor, "we gave him another injection of Crystalstar? Would that tide him over until his injuries are dealt with?" She raised her head and looked up at him with a frown.

Styles stared back at her, turning the idea over in his head. "You said yourself that he's been made an addict against his will. Do you think he would want that?" he replied, treading carefully.

"If it saves his life, yes. If it's the only way he will get over this, yes. I have no doubts that this is what he would choose." She did have doubts, but she would not jeopardize his life under any circumstances. And if this was the only choice . . .!

Styles looked a little intrigued by this. He wasn't hip on the idea. Supporting a man's drug addiction was not his idea of being a good doctor, but on the other hand, if it meant saving the man's life, it was worth a try. "Well ... if that's the way you see it ... " he said. "But I have no idea where to get that stuff from. And he may have another attack before we get it," he added.

Scully shook her head at herself. She couldn't really believe that she was doing this. Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved the packet that Skinner had given her. "Here you go. Half a pound of Crystalstar. It's highly concentrated so it should be enough to tide him over until he's out of the woods. And then we put him in a detox‑program and hopefully, he will be clean within a short time."

Styles stared at the packet in her hand for a second, then heaved a deep breath and sighed. "Very well. But I want to have it in writing that we're not being held responsible for his drug addiction. Just in case he can't get off it."

Scully nodded curtly. "Don't worry. We're not going to hold you responsible. Just don't tell anybody about what you're doing here." With that, she turned around and went back into Mulder's room and closed the door behind her.

Styles stared at the packet, then sighed again. "Don't worry, Agent Scully. I won't," he mumbled, turned around and headed to the nurse's station to prescribe a new medication to Agent Mulder, which was to be administered immediately and thereafter at any time it was needed.

* * *

**Location unknown**

The Cigarette-Smoking Man stared up at the woman standing in front of his chair in the library of the Consortium lodge. The look on her face was hard and unyielding. "Are you certain that you got them all?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, sounding slightly indifferent.

He sighed, lit a cigarette and eyed its glowing tip for a moment. "Good. Too bad that this batch went so wrong. They had potential," he said, then looked back up at her. "No surviving witnesses?" he asked on.

"None," she replied. "Except for Mulder, Scully and Skinner, of course," she added.

"Ah, yes. Not a good thing, that," he mumbled, more to himself than to her. "Forget about them. They won't do anything about it anyway. You can take off now. I won't need you any more today," he added to her.

She nodded once, turned around and strode out the door.

The Cigarette-Smoking Man looked after her, a frown on his face. There was something not quite right about her. He knew this female very well and he could tell that there was a slight difference in her behavior. Something which worried him. But only slightly. Not enough to make him act on it. Not yet, anyway.

Thoughtfully, he dragged at the cigarette and blew out the smoke again, thinking that he ought to visit Mulder in the hospital. He had heard that Scully had once again been resourceful in her attempts to save Mulder. That made him smile. She was resourceful and he was happy that he had decided to keep her around. Otherwise Mulder might have been dead and that would have been rather unfortunate.

* * *

**03.30 a.m.  
April 3**

Mulder opened his eyes and saw colors. Frowning up at the ceiling, he wondered about it for a moment, then lost interest. It was none of his concern. As nothing else was. He felt oddly disconnected from everything. He didn't bother about anything. His jaw hurt, but he didn't really care about it. It wasn't like he wanted to tell anybody anything. Letting his eyelids slide shut again, he uttered an annoyed sound because something kept bugging him. He didn't want to be bugged. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sleep and not worry about anything.

* * *

**04.54 a.m.**

Again, he woke up. This time, his mind was clearer. He remembered the incident from before, the colors and wondered more intently about it. His jaw was sore, but the previous pain was gone. His whole body felt numb to a certain extent. Obviously they had finally found a painkiller that could take the pain away.

Laboriously, he turned his head and saw Scully sitting on a chair, asleep. The fact that she was here made him smile a little. "Scully," he managed to whisper. Speaking was hard. His throat was dry. But she had obviously heard him.

She stirred, opened her eyes and blinked sluggishly at him. Then she smiled. "Hi," she said, yawned heartily and glanced at her watch. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he replied, staring at her.

"How's your jaw?" she asked on and took his hand.

"Better," he replied and cleared his throat. "Saw colors before," he added, not sure it would mean anything when it came down to it.

"Pardon?" Scully looked a little confused. "You saw colors before?" He mumbled a yes. "When?"

"Don't know. Earlier," he said. He gingerly moved his jaw a little and hissed weakly at the tenseness. The pain was almost gone, though. "Tired," he added, his eyelids becoming too heavy to keep open.

"Go back to sleep. You need your rest," she said and brushed her knuckles over his cheek. It made him smile lazily as he drifted off again. She leaned back again, staring at him. If he saw colors, he was high. Now he obviously didn't see them anymore, which meant that the drug was losing effect. And it was happening faster now than the previous days. "Oh no," she whispered.

* * *

**5.30 a.m.**

He woke up with a start, completely clear and fully aware of the pain. Groaning, he tried to move, to attract attention to himself, but he could barely think of moving without hurting. He felt awful. Cold and hot at the same time. His skin was itching, but he couldn't move his arms.

Scully was no longer in the room and he couldn't reach the bell because he couldn't move. He shifted nervously, trying to understand what was going on. This wasn't normal. He wasn't just in pain. He was uncomfortable. One thing he did notice was that the pain wasn't as potent as it had been previously and that at least was a relief.

Then the door opened. A nurse came in, a syringe in one hand, and smiled at him. "Hi there. Are you in pain?" she asked quietly. He managed a weak yes. "Okay. Hold on. I'll give you something for it. You'll be fine in a jiffy," she said, reached out for the tube connected to his right arm ... and dropped out of view.

Right behind where she had been, another woman stood, her expression cool. "Yeah, you'll be fine in a jiffy," she said, mimicking the nurse's words but not her tone of voice.

With a brutality which shocked him into silence, she ripped the drop from his arm, almost tearing the skin in the process.

With an effort he had not thought possible moments before, he managed to push himself toward the far side of the bed, but that did him fairly little good. She was fast and she was definitely strong. Moaning in fear, he raised his right arm, trying to ward her off, lagging the strength. She grabbed him and hauled him out of the bed. The movement sent a scream of pain through him from his shoulder and he whimpered, desperately trying to stay conscious. But his vision blurred and darkened and seconds later, he had passed out.

The woman loaded the limp body over one shoulder, went up to the door and glanced out into the corridor. Not much action this time of the morning. His protector was somewhere down the hall, getting something to drink, which meant that the coast was clear. She looked either way once more, then walked briskly toward the end of the corridor and the service elevator shafts.

* * *

**5.40 a.m.**

Scully walked slowly down the corridor toward Mulder's room after having had a chat with his doctor about his treatment, content in the knowledge that the nurse she had contacted earlier had given him the injection and thereby freed him of any pain he might be in.

Yawning, she rubbed the back of her neck with one hand, holding a coffee cup in the other. She reached for the door and pushed it open and stepped into the room. The second she cleared the door, she stopped short. The coffee cup dropped out of her hand and shattered on the floor as she stared at the empty bed, the drop which was leaking onto the floor and the unconscious nurse lying next to the bed.

* * *

**6.20 a.m.**

Skinner paced the floor of Mulder's room, now and again stopping to stare at the bed, then resumed his pacing. "Damn it, Scully. How could this happen?" he demanded for the umpteenth time.

Scully, who was sitting on her chair next to the bed, rubbed a hand over her face, looking as unhappy as he felt. "I don't know. I left the room for ten minutes tops. When I got back, he was gone. The nurse has a concussion and doesn't know anything. She didn't see or hear anything. She said she came in to give him the injection, reached out for the tube and that's it. Nothing else. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. I'm starting to get very fed up with this. It seems to be some kind of personal vendetta against Mulder and I don't understand it. I just don't understand it."

Skinner stared at her for a moment, then turned his attention to the window, his jaw set. "When we find him again, I'm putting him in protective custody. And, come hell or high water, he will stay there until we know what the hell if going on. I'm inclined to agree with you. It seems to be some kind of personal vendetta. But from whom? And why?" He was frustrated, angry because he had not done what had obviously been necessary three months ago. Mulder should have been in protective custody from the very beginning. An idea popped into his head and he turned back to face Scully. "I'm going to talk to the Smoker about this. I want to know what the hell is going on," he told her.

"Sir, is that wise?" Scully replied. "What if he demands something in return?"

Skinner's expression became even tenser if that was possible. "I'll beat it out of him if I have to. I've had enough of this charade. This has to end. Right now."

* * *

**8.00 a.m.  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

Skinner looked up when the door to his office opened. His eyes narrowed as he watched the Smoker saunter into the room, the statutory cigarette between his lips.

The Cigarette-Smoking Man smiled. He didn't know why exactly Skinner wanted to see him, but he would find out soon enough. "You wanted to see me?" he asked casually and sat down on one of the chairs in front of Skinner's desk.

Skinner stared at the man, trying to guess if he knew anything about this. "Yes. We have a problem on our hands and I can't help thinking that you might be responsible," he replied, staring at the other man with steel in his eyes.

The Cancer Man raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's not good, then. And what seems to be the problem?" he wanted to know, sounding utterly indifferent.

"Two hours ago, Agent Mulder was removed from his hospital room," Skinner said, eyeing the Cancer Man for any reaction. "By force," he added.

He didn't let it slip, but this was bad news. Staring back at Skinner, the only sign outwardly which displayed that he had any opinion about this was that the smile was gone. "I see," he said. "And what do you expect me to do?"

Slowly, Skinner rose from his chair. "As I believe that you are involved, you and your cohorts, I expect you to see to it that he is returned. Alive! Or I'm going to place a call to a certain Native American who will be more than willing to tell a certain story to the press." The reaction from the Smoker, though not very obvious to the untrained eye, made him smile grimly. "I'm going to bury you five foot under if you don't return Mulder unharmed, you son of a bitch. Do you understand?" he added calmly.

The Cancer Man stared at him for a moment, seemingly unfazed by his words. Inside, though, he was more than ready to get up and tell this man that he had nothing to do with the abduction of Mulder. But he could not let his calm exterior slip. It would not be good for business. So he didn't speak until he was certain that it came out right. "Mr. Skinner," he said calmly, briefly eyeing the tip of his cigarette before looking back into those furious eyes. "I have no idea where Mr. Mulder is," he eventually said. "But I can make some inquiries as to his whereabouts." He got up, too, his eyes never leaving Skinner's. "I'll see what I can do," he added with a smug smile, turned around and walked out.

Skinner heaved a deep breath and dropped back down on his chair, not at all certain this had been a good idea. But, on the other hand, he was getting utterly fed up with these people lashing out at Mulder. Obviously, Mulder was too close to something they wanted to protect. Whatever that was.

Thoughtfully, he turned his chair around and looked out at the brightening sky, wondering when this would end. If ever. He was most inclined to believe that Mulder's nine lives were about spent. The man had been in so much trouble over the years he had worked for Skinner, it would surprise the A.D. greatly if he got away from this alive and intact.

Shaking his head at this dilemma, he pulled his glasses off and ran a hand over his face. He was tried. Not just physically, but mentally as well. Somehow, he felt he needed a break. A vacation would be good. Just somewhere away from all this, alone on a deserted island where he could think above the din of other people and traffic. He quietly promised himself that he would get away for a week or two once this business was dealt with; whatever the outcome.

* * *

**Location unknown**

The dark-haired woman dumped her burden on the floor of a bare room and knelt down beside him. The incision in his right arm where she had removed the drop was bleeding badly. She pressed her thumb down on it for a moment and when she removed it again, the wound was gone. She then wrapped both hands around his jaw and held them there for a moment longer. After dealing with his most life threatening injuries, she got up and walked out of the room, closing and locking the door behind her.

It took Mulder another half hour to get back into the world of the living. Once he was there, he slowly opened his eyes and marveled at the fact that he was no longer in pain. His left shoulder was numb and when he gingerly tried to move it, it moved without pain. Shifting his jaw brought no pain, either and his broken ribs were not bothering him anymore.

Feeling a little dizzy, but without the thundering headache, he sat up. Apart from not feeling any pain anymore, he felt like shit. He discovered that the moment he sat up. His stomach virtually cramped up. Moaning, he huddled up for a second until the worst of it had passed. Then he carefully straightened and took a look around. He could vaguely remember being forcefully removed from the hospital room.

Frowning, he inspected the bare room he was in now. The floor was wooden and the two windows were big. With an effort, he got to his feet and groaned at how he felt. Slowly, each step measured, he made it over to the window and found himself on the third floor of a country estate of some kind. A well kept garden, which looked more like a park, stretched as far as the eye could see. Hugging himself, he actually had to admit to himself that he relished the sight of the greenness down there.

Slowly, he turned back to the room. It was a big room. Nice, too, if it had been furnished. But as it were, there wasn't anything in the room. Rubbing his utterly dry tongue against the roof of his mouth, he sighed deeply and sank down on the floor, his legs too weak to carry him. He was also painfully aware that he was wearing nothing but the hospital shirt he had spent the last few days in, or however long he had been in the hospital. He cleared his throat and winced at the dry sensation.

Moments later, the door opened and the dark-haired woman who had removed him from the hospital came in. Mulder's reaction, though weak by most standards, was to stare at her in horror and press back against the wall and the lower part of the cool window pane behind him. His heartbeat quickened, his breath came in shallow little gasps while he stared at her, certain that she would beat the crap out of him.

She, however, stopped short at seeing him up, her brown eyes utterly indifferent, then she dumped a bundle of clothes on the floor, set down a pitcher of water, turned around and left again. The door clicked shut behind her and he heard the rattle of the key as she locked it, too.

It took him a while to calm down again and he was slightly baffled that she had not said anything or done anything to harm him. It was with a certain amount of dread that he realized he expected this kind of behavior from her.

Staring at the door for a moment longer, he fought a dizzy spell brought on by the hyper‑ventilation. There were certain things he would tell her next time she came in, though he simply did not have strength enough to speak yet, let alone try and get out. With the immediate threat out of the way, his eyes wandered to the pitcher sitting next to what he could only identify as a sweat suit. Swallowing hard, he could almost taste the water.

Slowly, laboriously, he got back to his feet and shuffled over to the pitcher and the clothes. He sank down on his knees and reached out with shaking hands for the water. His fingers felt awfully numb to him as he wrapped them around the cool neck of the rustic pitcher and he found that he couldn't raise it. He simply didn't have the strength. Bemoaning the fact that he could not raise a pitcher of water when he was parched, he flexed his fingers weakly, trying to get some strength back into them. He sat back on his heels and repeated the movements, also bending and stretching both arms in an attempt to get the numbness in his limbs to go away while he stared with almost fanatic fascination at the pitcher.

It took some work and a lot of frustration before he was able to finally raise the pitcher to his lips and drink. He sipped the cool liquid and made a face at the taste of it. Whether it was just a bad taste in his mouth or something in the water he didn't know, but the bitter, almond-like taste made him grimace. But he drank anyway. He needed the water so badly, it hurt. And, of course he overdid it. He could virtually hear Scully's voice telling him to sip the water, to take it slow, but he was so awfully thirsty, he craved the water. All of it. So he downed the half gallon of water in nearly one go and this resulted in an almost immediate stomach cramp. The pitcher dropped out of his hands, spilling the tiny remainder of water onto the floor as he curled up, cursing himself for not having more control.

A couple of deep breaths and sheer concentration eased the discomfort after a while. He was thankful that he hadn't thrown up. At least the water would come to good use now. Rolling onto his back, he closed his eyes and tried to wish himself away.

* * *

**09.30 a.m.  
April 4  
J. Edgar Hoover building  
Washington, D.C.**

Dana Scully sat on her chair in her office and stared at Mulder's favorite poster on the wall. "I want to believe," she whispered, staring hard at it as if just staring at it could conjure him up. After a while, she closed her eyes. "How many lives do you have, Mulder?" she asked the silent room quietly. How many times could he get away from experiences like this with his life and mind intact? There was no indication of his whereabouts, no indication of who had taken him and why. She had a theory, one she didn't want to think too much about. His condition when he had vanished had been so severe, that she could not imagine that he would survive without medical help. The thought of him alone, hurting in perhaps a basement somewhere, made her open her eyes again. She did not like the mental picture that thought created.

With a heartfelt sigh, she turned the chair back to her desk and stared down at a profile he had begun not too long ago. His sharp wit and mind virtually jumped off the pages, his theories and thoughts bringing a smile to her lips. A sad one. For the first time in the years she had known him and rescued him from life threatening situations, she did not feel that he was still out there. She knew that her feelings on the matter were based on her medical opinion about his health and general well‑being, but she thought she would know if he was still out there somewhere.

Right now, she was here, in the office, just waiting for that call which would ask her to come to the local morgue and identify him. "Damn it," she whispered, closed the folder and leaned back again.

When the phone suddenly rang, her heart was in her throat immediately. She stared at the ringing contraption for a second, not wanting to pick up in fear of the news she might receive, then did pick up. "Scully," she said.

"Dana? It's Bill."

She let out an almost audible sigh of relief. No bad news. "Hi, Bill," she finally said.

"Are you okay, Dana? You sound upset?" Bill replied.

She briefly considered telling him the reason, but figured he would make some kind of remark she definitely wasn't up to hearing right now and therefore decided not to tell him. "It's nothing, Bill. What's up?" she wanted to know, trying hard to sound cheerful. It came out all wrong.

Bill was quiet for a moment and she could almost hear him brooding on the other end. "Uhm ... Tara and I were wondering if you don't have a vacation coming up any time soon. We'd really like to see you," he finally said. "I mean, you must be up for a vacation," he added with a somewhat uncertain chuckle. He could sense her mood and was slightly confused about it. He had a theory on why she might be upset and it all went back to that partner of hers.

Closing her eyes, she scolded herself silently for not having seen that one coming. She knew her brother well enough to know he had a habit of making inane requests in the middle of a crisis. Not that he knew there was one, of course. "Bill, I really can't think about vacation time right now. We've got a bit of a crisis on our hands here and there is no way I can take off in the middle of it. I wouldn't want to." She knew how it sounded, but she didn't really care. "I'll have to get back to you on this, okay? So, if you'll excuse me? I've got a lot of work to do."

"Isn't that partner of yours doing his share of the work?"

It had to come. She knew it had to come, but she was still not in the mood for it. Closing her eyes, she told herself silently to be calm. "He's doing more than his share, Bill. He's missing in action and we're currently trying to find him. I don't have time to chat right now, okay?" She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice.

Bill was silent again for a moment, aware he had just overstepped the line. "I'm sorry, Dana. I didn't know," he defended himself. "Call me when this is over, okay? Or if you just need to talk."

Keeping her eyes closed, she nodded. "Okay, I will. I have to go. Tell Tara hi and give that unruly kid of yours a kiss from me." With that, she hung up. Shaking her head sadly, she fought tears back for a moment. "When this is over?" she whispered. "I'll probably be going to his funeral when this is over," she added and bit her lower lip in a fit of depression.

* * *

**The Consortium Lodge  
46th Street  
New York City**

The Cancer Man stared intently at the woman, who had previously informed him of the death of the clones. "You told me that they were all dead," he said.

"They are," she replied, still utterly indifferent.

"Then why is Agent Mulder missing again?" he wanted to know tersely.

"Because he is dependent on Crystalstar," she replied.

The Cancer Man stared at her. "Crystalstar?" he almost snapped. "Where the hell did he get that from?" Shaking his head in annoyance, he couldn't help thinking about that hellish stuff one of the scientists had extracted from the Royal Jelly of these special killer bees carrying the small pox virus. Dried and powered it became a drug equal to Heroin but with an addiction rate never seen before. And, of course, it had gotten out.

As far as he had been able to determine, the scientist who had developed it had also tried it on himself and had become an addict immediately. Naturally he had been relieved of his burden forever. But ten pounds of the stuff had been made and had been missing, too, until it turned up in a warehouse in Washington and was impounded by the F.B.I. He would have to see to it that it was removed from there and destroyed. There was no sense in having something like this lying around.

The dark-haired woman cleared her throat, attracting his attention. "The last clone I terminated had this on her," she told him and dropped a package into his outstretched hand. "One pound of it. The rest is in the hands of the F.B.I. Except for half a pound which has been turned over to Mulder's doctor at the hospital," she added and dumped a second, smaller package into his hand, too. "I have no access to the F.B.I.'s storage department and if Mulder finds out where it comes from, there will be hell to pay." Her tone of voice did not convey any kind of emotion other than perhaps slight boredom.

The Cancer Man almost smiled. This one was resourceful. She thought on her own, which meant that she wasn't the one he usually dealt with. "Let me deal with the F.B.I.," he said. "Which one are you?" he subsequently asked her.

"We are one," she replied, the general reply to that kind of question.

They were clones and not able to distinguish between each other. They thought alike and he sometimes had them suspected of having a collective mind. Actually, he was quite certain that they did. This one, however, overstepped her boundaries. That could mean only one thing. She was self-aware without the others. A new twist to the whole thing. He kind of liked it. "Does that mean that you took him or one of your sisters?" he asked on, knowing that she would not volunteer information unless he asked her directly.

"I took him," she replied.

"Where?" he asked, staring into her eyes and seeing nothing there.

"To the house," she told him.

"What about his injuries? I understand they were quite severe." Once he knew what he needed to know, he would tell Skinner to back off and he would then put a lid on this.

"They have been dealt with. All he will have to deal with now are the side-effects of the drug. He is weak. But I think he will survive it," she said, her eyes briefly coming alive.

The Cancer Man still smiled. She was definitely developing a mind of her own. Quite interesting. "Good. Go back and stay with him. Tide him over if he needs it, but don't tell him anything. The less he knows, the better. Once he's free of the drug, return him to his apartment and leave."

She nodded once. "I'm feeding him this liquid sustenance in the water as instructed. I think he knows it's in there, but he drinks the water anyway." With that, she turned around and left again.

His smile stayed on for a while. It had been a long time since he'd had help he could depend on. This one did what he said without question. He was intrigued by her ability to develop, though. The others had shown no sign of that. None of the clones created from human tissue and alien DNA had shown any such potential. This one, however, was created from a human ova. There seemed to be a difference. He would have to investigate this potential and try to estimate the outcome, but so far he liked what he saw.

* * *

**Location unknown**

Mulder felt lousy; hot one moment, cold the next. He'd had another cramp attack like the one in the hospital and it had completely drained him of whatever strength he'd been able to build up. Although it had not lasted nearly as long as the first one, he had passed out afterward and when he came to again, it was dark outside. He had changed into the sweat suit the woman had provided for him and felt marginally better wearing clothes, but it still didn't give him an inkling of a clue about where he was or why he was here. She had returned twice, with a new pitcher of water ever time, but his attempts to get her to say something had been in vain. She had simply set the pitcher down on the floor, grabbed the empty one and left again, closing and locking the door behind her. It was actually more frustrating that she didn't speak to him than if she had beat him up every time she came in. Her lack of response was driving him crazy. He demanded, he pleated for her to say something, but she didn't.

With a sigh, he took a swig of the water, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He had discovered a small bathroom connected to the room, which had given him a sense of relief. The water coming out of the faucet had smelled bad, though, and that had given him an idea why she was providing water in a pitcher. He probably shouldn't drink the stuff from the faucet. The water in the pitcher still tasted bitter and he had arrived at the conclusion that something was added to it. His first thought had been that they were poising him, but that made no sense. Why would they want to do that? They could just kill him.

Feeling restless but too weak to move around too much, he settled down next to the low-set window and stared out at the night sky, at the stars. And all the time he kept wondering what would happen to him.

Although he was tired enough to drop, he couldn't sleep. The restlessness increased and the numbness in his limbs returned after a while. He couldn't sit still, couldn't find a position that was comfortable. Having a fairly good idea about what was causing this, fear rose in him. The discomfort was increasing and he had heard about how difficult and painful it could be to get out of drug abuse. Not that he would call his particular case drug abuse. He had received one injection of it against his will and, as far as he remembered, one or two more in the hospital. Scully had told him what they would do. He had not liked it, but had seen the need for it at the time. And this was definitely it.

To concentrate on something else for a while, he tried to remember some of the things he had read about Crystalstar in the report everybody had received before the bust. The drug was new, definitely not tested in any way or manner. The addicts, the few that had money enough to buy this stuff, reportedly saw odd shapes and colors, some of them claiming they had seen a different universe. He could go with that one. The colors, at least. He had seen them in the hospital, for a brief moment.

But apparently, one thing that was not documented was that when the addict was tripping on the drug, matters of importance became insignificant. He remembered how little the pain had meant to him while he had seen the colors. How little it had mattered that he was hurting. It was as if it was happening to somebody else. He could sense the pain, but it was too far away to matter in any way. Almost like getting the laughing gas at the dentists. The sensation was the same; a kind of indifferent detachment from everything.

This could not be said for how he was feeling now, though. He wanted more of the drug. Every fiber of his body was craving it. It wasn't yet unpleasant enough to drive him out of his head, but it was nagging him. It was keeping him from sleeping. Groaning in despair, not certain what the next few hours had in store for him, he wrapped his arms tighter around himself and returned to staring out at the stars, hoping that he could distract himself enough to override the need he felt.

An hour later, he was in a frenzy. The physical discomfort was so strong that it bordered on pain and he was up and pacing until his legs would no longer carry him. Sitting down hard on the floor in the middle of the room, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself, he tried in vain to suppress the shudder that ran through him. So far he had been able to keep himself from begging for someone to help him. He had a feeling that nobody would.

Obviously there was something about this drug that the Consortium wanted to suppress. There was no doubt in his mind that they were behind this. Whether they did this to teach him a lesson he did not know. He could not come up with any plausible reason for them doing this to him. But, then again, there didn't seem to be much reason in anything they did. Grinding his teeth together, he fought the craving for the drug for as long as he could.

But before the sun rose, he was trying to break down the door in an attempt to get to the drug. His subconscious mind kept nagging him about his behavior, but he had reached the state where he just didn't care. At first he raged, hammering his fists against the door until the skin was raw and bleeding. Then he begged. Finally he slid down the door, too exhausted to move much anymore and sobbed at the unfairness of his existence. Everything that had ever gone wrong in his life came tumbling back down over him, threatening to suffocate him, making him wonder why he had thought that life was worth living. There was nothing in the world right now that could make him love life.

And then the hallucinations started up. For more than an hour, he relieved Samantha's abduction over and over again until it nearly drove him insane. The scene never changed, he never managed to save her. Lying curled up on the floor, his back against the door, his arms wrapped tightly around his head, he cried. He cried like he hadn't in many years. When that abduction scene finally faded, he sobbed with relief. Thinking that the worst was over, he froze in panic when it was suddenly replaced by another. He moaned in anguish, grabbing his head and closing his eyes, but the scene unfolded before him anyway. Although he had not been present when Scully had been taken, he saw the scene, saw how Dwayne Barry had broken the window and attacked her. He saw how she reached for the phone, trying to call him, to beg for his help. And again he could do nothing but stand by and watch. This scene repeated itself on a loop like Samantha's abduction had and at one point he started screaming, unable to stand it anymore. A thought wormed its way out of his subconscious mind, a wicked little voice telling him how he could make it end.


	6. Chapter 6

**02.36 a.m.  
April 6  
Dana Scully's Residence  
3170 West 53 Road  
Annapolis  
Maryland**

Scully jerked awake and sat up in her bed, blinking in confusion. The dream she'd had, had torn her out of her sleep. Breathing heavily, she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them after having turned on the light. Yet the scene from the dream kept playing over and over in her mind. She had dreamed of Mulder. He had been caught in something and had been reaching out to her, begging for her help. But she couldn't move, couldn't get to him.

"Oh my God. Are you still alive?" she whispered. Unable to justify this feeling, her initial intention to reach for the phone and call Skinner subsided again. She couldn't wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him she'd had a dream about Mulder. He would think she had lost her mind. But the feeling was as strong as the time when she thought he had died on that Indian reservation. Stronger, even. He was in need. He needed her. And she didn't know where to start looking.

An idea, which actually made her laugh out loud in disbelief, came to her like lightning from a clear sky. Go back to sleep. Dream on. That was what she was thinking. Could it be possible? Could she find Mulder in a dream and then go to him in reality? The helpless laughter overcame her again. This was insane. This was something Mulder would believe in. No, she decided. It was just a dream. Frowning, she reached out and switched off the light, the nagging doubt not letting go. Was he really dead? Or was he out there somewhere, in dire need of help? She feared the first and wanted to believe the second. And in between there was that dream.

* * *

**Location unknown**

The dark-haired woman stepped into the room after the end of his third week there and looked around. At first she didn't see him, then spotted him in the furthest corner from the windows. She had checked on him regularly and had made certain that he was okay despite the terrible attacks he went through. Most of them were painful only to his mind. It was dark in the room due to the heavy cloud cover outside, announcing another storm. Squinting in the gloom, she slowly walked toward him, aware that he might still be lost in some kind of imaginary world. She squatted down in front of him, her eyes scrutinizing his face.

Swallowing weakly, his lips parted as he tried to form words without being able to speak and his eyes focused on her. A weak movement of one hand indicated that he wanted something from her.

She eyed his hand for a moment, then looked back up at his face. "How are you feeling?" she asked after a moment, her tone of voice as indifferent as ever. It was the first time that she spoke to him since his arrival. He just stared at her. "Any hallucinations?"

He weakly shook his head to let her know that he hadn't had hallucinations in a while.

"Any cramps?"

Again, he merely shook his head no, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Do you feel any hunger for the drug?"

Once more he shook his head in denial.

"Good. I think it's about time you went home," she said, staring at him.

He stared back, no indication of recognition in his eyes. But inside him, something was happening. The word home stirred him to life. Slowly, sluggishly he started thinking again.

* * *

**3.35 p.m.  
April 29  
Quantico**

Dr. Dana Scully dismissed her class for the afternoon. Since the Bureau without hesitation had pronounced her partner dead long before that time when it was officially legal, and had reassigned her to a teaching position at Quantico, she had spent her days telling young people how to cut cadavers open, how to determine causes of death. And all the while, she kept dreaming of her partner, the same dream over and over again.

By now, she was as certain as she could be without tangible proof that he was still out there somewhere, but all her resources to find him had been cut off. Skinner had stood powerless when the brass had decided that this was official business. They had even reprimanded him for not putting other agents on the case and told him he should be happy to still have a job.

Scully's mind had rebelled when he had told her about her re‑assignment, but to the outside world, she had seemingly accepted her fate. Her occasional contact to the Lone Gunmen was held in the strictest confidence and although she had given them all the information she could, they had not been able to find even a single trace anywhere.

Scully had naturally been in charge of telling Mulder's mother about his disappearance and the fact that the F.B.I. had closed the book him. Mrs. Mulder had taken the news the way she took any news, calmly, but with a kind of silent despair in her eyes. She had, however, refused to let anybody touch his apartment and was willing to continuously pay the rent until they found a definite sign that her son was gone. Due to her own belief that he wasn't dead, Scully supported Mrs. Mulder in that action and went over there a few times a week to feed the fish.

Scully shrugged out of her lab coat, grabbed her things and headed for her car. She was in no mood to talk to her colleagues, although they had arranged a small get-together this afternoon where all were invited. She was fed up with hearing snide remarks about her missing partner, about how everybody had expected this to happen sooner or later. For who could think that Spooky Mulder wouldn't go AWOL at one point?

Once behind the wheel or her Ford Taurus, she paused before turning the key in the ignition. Looking out at Quantico, she remembered how many times she had been here in the past. Both on her own and with Mulder. To think that she would never hear his silly comments on things again made her close her eyes briefly. "Oh God. I wish I had the strength of your beliefs now, Mulder. I wish I could be one hundred percent certain that you're still out there." She shook her head, her defeat complete. She had so wanted to stay in Washington so she could further her attempts to try and find her missing partner and friend, but nobody had listened to her. Nobody had paid attention to her needs, her wishes. She had told Skinner about her dreams, but he had shrugged, obviously very burdened by the whole thing, and had told her to forget about it. Unless Mulder resurfaced, alive or dead, there was nothing more he could do. His channels were blocked, he had told her. Nothing could be done.

Scully couldn't help wondering what the Cancer Man had threatened him with, for there was no doubt in her mind that his helplessness stemmed from that corner.

* * *

**6.30 p.m.  
Mulder's residence  
Apartment 42  
2630 Hegal Place  
Alexandria**

He woke up slowly, his face buried in an mostly unyielding, familiar smelling mass. He inhaled the scent and very slowly raised his head, staring down at the black, comfortable surface beneath him. Then, slowly, he turned his head, running his eyes over his own living room as if he had never seen it before. Weak to a point where he could hardly move, he managed to shift himself around so he was lying on his side on his couch, the familiar scents of his home bombarding him. He let his eyelids slide shut again and drew in a deep breath, savoring the feeling of being home again.

He'd been gone for a long time. He didn't know how long, though. Through the threshes and the pain, the subsequent hallucinations and his increasing weakness, he had lost count of the days and nights he had spent in that place. But all that didn't matter now. What mattered was that he was home. He felt weak, but there was no pain and the horrible urge for that drug had subsided a few days ago. He felt no need whatsoever to ever stick his nose into something like this again. If he never heard of a drug addict again, it would be too soon.

Running his tongue over the roof of his mouth, he noted the fact that he was thirsty. A glass of water stood on the coffee table next to him and he couldn't help smiling. It was a sarcastic little smile. Life sure had been a mess lately. Reaching out weakly, he grabbed the glass and drank a few sips of the water, noting that the almond taste was gone. Just plain water.

He settled back onto the couch, placing the glass on his chest, and stared up at the ceiling. Then a thought popped into his head. Scully. He had to call Scully and let her know he was okay. With an effort, he managed to push himself up on the couch and reached for the phone conveniently positioned on the coffee table as well. Not a place he would keep it, he mused. With shaking fingers, he pressed the speed dial button and raised the receiver up to his ear.

* * *

**7.10 p.m.  
Dana Scully's Residence  
3170 West 53 Road  
Annapolis  
Maryland**

Scully had settled down on her couch with a bowl of soup, not really hungry but forcing herself to eat. She had lost weight over the last month and needed to regain some of it before she wasted away. Heaving a deep breath, she sighed and shook her head. "I'm starting to be as obsessed about things as you are, Mulder," she said, unable to shake the rock-steady yet odd conviction that he was still out there.

The phone rang, causing her to close her eyes in annoyance. "Bill! It's a guess," she told herself, put the bowl of soup aside and got up to grab the receiver. Her brother had called her on a regular basis, trying to get her to come out to visit so she didn't have to go through this tough period on her own. The thing was, she knew what would happen once she got there and got settled in. Bill would start telling her that she was better off and although he had never wanted for Mulder to die, he certainly had not approved of him being a part of her life. Shaking her head, she raised the receiver to her ear.

"Yes?" she asked, certain to hear her brother on the other end. A patch of silence followed that.

"Scully, it's me."

Her eyelids slid closed and she barely managed to contain an almost anguished sigh as she brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Although his voice was weak, barely audible, she would recognize that voice anywhere. "Oh God," she whispered. "Mulder?"

"Yeah!" he breathed, sounding ready to drop.

"Where are you?" she demanded, her own voice taking on a strength she had not been able to display over the past month.

"At home," he replied and laughed weakly. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"I'm coming over," she said, ignoring that last remark. "Just ... stay where you are," she added as if on second thought.

"Okay," he replied.

The connection broke again and she stood there with the receiver in her hand, staring at it, wondering if this had just happened. Maybe she had finally gone insane, she mused. Then she shook her head, put the receiver down, went into her bedroom to put some decent clothes on and left the apartment fifteen minutes later.

* * *

**7.45 p.m.  
Mulder's residence  
Apartment 42  
2630 Hegal Place  
Alexandria**

Scully unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, immediately sensing another presence. She closed the door and walked through to the living room only to stop at the sight of him. He was thin. Had lost a lot of weight over the past month. There were dark patches under his eyes and his face in general had a hollow look to it. But he was smiling at her and she could not recall ever having seen anything better in her whole life. Leaning her head to the right, she sat down on the edge of the couch, staring at him with a smile of her own. Without further ado, she leaned over him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him hard. He in turn slipped his arms around her, attempting to hug her back, but his arms lagged the strength.

"Scully," he breathed after a moment.

She just kept on holding him, savoring the feel of having him near. "Yes?" she whispered.

"You're squashing me," he told her, a smile in his voice.

With a slightly rueful smile on her lips, she let go and leaned back, her hands on his arms.

"I seem to be ... a little ... uhm ... undernourished," he said.

"You do, yes," she replied, inspecting his face thoughtfully, her mind already in doctor mode. "Let me have a look at you," she added, taking his right hand and inspecting that, too. "Do you feel sick?" she asked, turning it over. The skin on his hand was dry, rough.

"No," he replied weakly. "Just ... tired. And awfully hungry," he told her, smiling at the way she was scrutinizing him. "I could go for a burger right now," he added and swallowed hard at the thought of food.

Scully met his eyes and smiled. "A burger?" she asked and he nodded. "I am going to make sure that you get something to eat, but a burger is not going to be it. You need something that can give you your strength back. Something that can get you back on your feet in a hurry. I do not like seeing you like this. But you don't seem sick. Just thinner." Staring at him, her smiled faded. "Where have you been for the past three weeks?"

He returned her stare for a moment, then closed his eyes and sighed. "Has it been that long?" he replied. "I don't know ... a house out in the country. I ... couldn't get out."

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, then traced his jaw-line, searching for the injuries he'd had when he had disappeared. The dislocated jaw should be okay by now, providing he had been treated right, but his broken shoulder and ribs should still be bothering him. Her fingers slipped down over his left shoulder, touching and poking it.

"I'm okay," he told her. "Don't ask how. I woke up in that place and was okay."

"The broken ribs?" she wanted to know and he nodded his head. "You have no bruises anymore. Most of them should be gone by now, but still. There should still be signs. How's your head?"

He smiled weakly at her concern. "Light. I feel very ... light‑headed."

* * *

**8.30 a.m.  
May 25  
J. Edgar Hoover building  
Washington, D.C.**

It had taken him a little over three weeks to get back on his feet. His strength was building daily and both his complexion and figure had returned to normal. Outward there was no sign of what had happened to him. Inside, Scully wasn't so sure. She had watched him closely and had noticed something. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something going on in that head of his. What it was she didn't know, though. All she knew was that he was keeping things from her. Things that might be important.

There had been a lot of questions, a lot of confusion about his disappearance and subsequent return. Skinner and Scully seemed to be among the only ones who saw it as something good that he had returned. To questions about where he had been for the past month, he had replied with the same explanation he had given Scully. A country estate somewhere, he had no idea where or how long he had been there. He knew nothing of his abductor other than that she had taken him away, gotten him off the drug, and had subsequently returned him to his apartment. And he patiently repeated it over and over again. To Scully's great surprise, nothing seemed to faze him these days. He didn't get upset about the questions. He didn't get that set look to his jaw when somebody made fun of him. He in general didn't seem to care. It was like water off a duck's back. Nothing got to him.

She draped her coat over the back of her chair and smiled at him, receiving that odd weak smile back that he had acquired since returning, when he briefly glanced up at her. He hardly made any jokes, which she of course didn't expect him to, either. It was just odd to be with him at the moment. To her utter and complete confusion, he seemed to lean heavily on her opinion about things now. She had not heard him come up with one single remark on anything supernatural. "Mulder," she said, easing down on her chair without taking her eyes of him.

"Yeah?" he replied, looking up from the paperwork he was going over.

"Are you okay?" she wanted to know, a standard question she asked him every morning when she came in since his return to work.

He smiled. There was something overbearing about that smile. As if he gladly tolerated silly questions about his health. "I'm fine," he replied. "Why? Shouldn't I be?"

A diversity from their usual routine. It gave her hope. "I don't know, Mulder. I don't really know you anymore. I'm aware that you've been through hell and it would be nothing short of a miracle if you had gotten away from this without some kind of ... after‑effect. But you're behaving oddly."

For a moment, he just stared at her, his expression calm and unemotional, then he pulled his reading glasses off and leaned back on his chair, the look in his eyes suddenly far away, his expression tensing up. "I have a better understanding for certain things now. Like what a drug addict feels when trying to become drug free. I understand how difficult it is." Focusing on her, the seriousness in his expression did not escape her. The way he frowned, the dark look in his eyes. "I don't ever ... ever want to go through that again. If ever somebody forces me to take drugs again, I'll stay on them."

She was taken aback by his statement. She knew from medical reports, and the few times she had seen drug addicts in the throes of their need, how difficult it could be, but something had happened to him while he had been away which had left him utterly shaken. "That's a pretty hefty comment, Mulder," she said, as serious as he was.

"Yes, I know. But that's how I feel. If ordinary drugs put you through even half of what I went through, I'd rather die than try and get off them." Again his eyes drifted and his expression revealed his inner turmoil. "It was horrible. No nightmare I've ever had could compete with what I saw." He closed his eyes and sighed lightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It was so real."

Her heart constricted at his words. This was something he had to live with every day of his life. On top of all the other heart wrenching episodes of his life. She just sat there, staring at him, unable to find any words of comfort. Because she didn't know how horrible it had really been.

* * *

**August 7  
08.10 a.m.  
The Consortium Lodge  
46th Street  
New York**

The Cigarette-Smoking Man looked up from his morning paper when one of his many helpers turned up unannounced. She leaned in close to whisper in his ear, "Bad news, I'm afraid."

Looking up at her for a moment, he then lit a Morley and rose. Nodding to his counter-parts, he said "Would you excuse me?" and followed the young woman out of the sitting room. "What kind of bad news?" he wanted to know once they were outside the building, walking slowly along the street, side by side.

She kept her eyes steadily on the pavement in front of her. "Not all are gone. The last one, the original, rose from the ashes after her benefactor tried to retire her. She's not dead. And she is set on revenge. There is only one likely source she will take that out on."

That was bad news, indeed, and it brought a frown to his face. "Unacceptable. Get a hold of our friend and have him deal with it. I want no further trouble from these females," he said, thinking with disgust of what these females had done to one of his protégées. This would not be repeated.

The young woman nodded in acceptance. "Right away. It may not be necessary, though. Her benefactor said it's only a matter of days before she dies," she replied and continued on her own along the street after he had stopped.

The Cigarette-Smoking Man watched her go while thoughtfully blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. Content in the knowledge that his more-than-human friends could deal with this situation on their own, he returned to the lodge, settled down on his chair and resumed reading the newspaper. There was fairly little in this world that could push him off track. And this was not going to be one of these things.

* * *

**10.15 p.m.  
August 9  
Mulder's residence  
Apartment 42  
2630 Hegal Place  
Alexandria**

The dialogue of the movie was getting old. Having seen WAR OF THE WORLDS a million times, Mulder had never thought he could get tired of it. But he didn't feel like watching nonsense tonight. Like any other night since May.

He could positively say that he had changed since May. Four months had passed since his finale encounter with that crazy shape-shifter. In those four months, he had gotten his shoulder forcefully broken and put back together again in a miraculous way. He had become a drug addict and had been forced off the drug again. His whole life had been screwed up. And three months before that, it had all begun with a most painful and horribly embarrassing encounter. Seven months of his life had been messed up by that odd invention that the Consortium was obviously so proud of. Shaking his head at that thought, he switched the television set off and leaned back on the couch, his feet on the coffee table.

He was a mess. No matter how much he fought the very notion, he knew he was a mess. His mind was screwed up by those incidents. At first the torture, then the fear, then the sense of freedom when he had thought himself safe. And then she had resurfaced and beaten the crap out of him, nearly killing him, forcing him into a brief yet painful addiction to a drug which had since disappeared mysteriously from the market again. Too many events to process in one go. And all within a year.

He had gone back to work as soon as he could, taking the time to recover, yet pushing himself back into action. Just so that nobody could hold that against him as well. And he also knew that he had to get back on the horse, metaphorically speaking.

One month ago he had done his best profile yet, helping to catch another crazed killer within the short time span of three weeks. That was all it had taken him to figure out who the guy was. They had found out where he was hiding, had arrested him and Mulder had testified in a court of law against the man, thereby certifying that he would not get out of prison again for quite a long time.

And Mulder had fooled Skinner. He knew as much. Skinner thought he was over the events which had ended in May and he had done nothing to prove the man wrong. After the successful profile, Skinner had padded his shoulder and told him, "Welcome back." He had grinned and had joined in on the celebration this quick arrest of that lunatic had resulted in. But on the inside, he felt everything but happy. He was alert nearly twenty-four hours a day. He slept badly. He drank coffee by the bucket just to stay awake long enough to nearly pass out. Only then could he sleep without dreaming.

Sighing, he ran both hands over his face, briefly thinking of all the new scars he could add to his collection and grinned joylessly. This was not good. Not a good line of thought. If he didn't get his mind focused on something other than what had transpired four months ago, he would dream about it. And he would wake up screaming.

Before he had a chance to come up with something, the phone rang. With a hunch of who it could be, he picked up. "Yup?"

"It's me." Scully's voice was subdued and he could hear the television blaring away in the background.

Mulder smiled. She was calling him on a regular basis, checking in, so to speak. "Hi," he said. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much. I was just wondering what you were up to," she replied, trying to sound indifferent but not quite managing.

Now there was someone he hadn't fooled. He couldn't fool her. No matter how hard he tried. She called him almost every evening to talk about nothing, to ask if he was okay, to wish him sweet dreams. He in turn wished that her wishes would come true. But usually, they didn't. "Nothing much, either," he replied, still smiling. It warmed him that she was so concerned about him. A concern she kept under wraps while they were working together. "What are you up to?" he wanted to know.

She suppressed a yawn and chuckled. "Oh, I was about to go to bed. Just wanted to ... you know ... check in. And remind you that we have a meeting with Skinner tomorrow morning. Nine sharp."

He could not help laughing softly at that. "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten. I know how much it means to him that we're there on time. But, let me in turn remind you of that you've got the car."

A brief pause followed that and he could just imagine her expression. "Oh yeah, that's right," she finally replied, managing to sound a little embarrassed. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to pick you up tomorrow, won't I?"

The whole thing was beginning to be very amusing. "Isn't that a little out of your way, agent Scully?" he replied. "Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were coming on to me."

That made her laugh out loud. "Don't flatter yourself, agent Mulder. I'm just trying to do you a favor so you don't have to take public transportation to work, God forbid," she told him, her tone of voice full of irony. "I'll be there at half past. Just be ready, okay? I'm not coming in to wake you up. If you're not downstairs when I honk the horn, I'm leaving and then you can take the bus to work and explain to Skinner why you are late for this meeting."

Mulder enjoyed these little conversations they had. It made him think of other things. "Yeah, I'll just tell him you ditched me even though you promised to pick me up," he replied, grinning.

"I ditched you?" she shot back, sounding a little baffled. "Now there's a thought," she added. "I'll be there at eight thirty. Be ready. I will come up and drag you out of bed if I have to."

"Oooh! Now that makes me want to stay in bed," he said.

"You wish," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, Mulder. Sweet dreams."

"Thanks. You, too," he replied and hung up. "Yeah, sometimes I do wish," he added with a smile and decided to turn in. His mood was decidedly better now and he thought he might actually have something else to dream about. Something good for a change. Tired and for once not afraid to admit it, he reached out to switch off the lamp, slid down on his couch, pulled the blanket up to his nose and closed his eyes. He needed a good night's sleep.

* * *

**10.35 p.m.**

Down on the street, across from the building, a shadow stirred in a dark doorway. Phoenix broke out of the shadows and stared up at the now dark window, her eyes glowing with hatred. In general, she had nothing against Fox Mulder, she didn't even know him except from what her now dead sisters had told her, but her former benefactors seemed to think he was important to their goal and what better way to bring them down than to remove one of their crown jewels? And she would make him suffer for her defeat. She needed one of her former benefactors' little inventions to stay sane. They had taken it away from her and with every passing day, she would become more of a threat to her surroundings. Still fully aware of her own madness, she glanced either way before stepping out on the road. Her hands deeply buried in the pockets of her long, dark trench coat, she made her way across the street, her eyes on the entrance to the building.

* * *

**08.30 a.m.  
August 7**

Dana Scully stopped the car and honked the horn, leaning back to wait for a moment. Nothing happened. Leaning forward a bit, she glanced up at his window and sighed. "Damn it, Mulder. Are you really going to make me come up there?" she mumbled under her breath and glanced at her watch. "Two more minutes and I'm coming up, Mulder," she added. "And I'm not going to be gentle."

With a sigh, she shook her head in annoyance, turned off the engine and pulled the key out of the ignition. She pushed the door open and stepped out on the road, a fresh breeze making her stop short for a second while she stared up at his living room window.

She slammed the door of the car and locked it, then stalked across the street and up the few steps to the front door of the building. "You better have a hell of a good excuse for this one," she mumbled as she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She caught the elevator to the second floor and walked purposefully down the hallway until she came to his door. Giving the 42 a sharp glare, she raised her fist to knock. His front door swung open at first contact.

Scully froze, staring at the half-open door in surprise and sudden dread. A feeling of déjà-vu crept up on her and holding her breath, she pushed the door fully open and stepped through to the small hallway beyond.

"Mulder?" she called. No reply. "Oh no, not again," she whispered, examining the immediate area closely. No blood stains. That was at least a good sign.

She walked through to the living room and stopped short at the sight of the damage done there. The coffee table had been turned over, a blanket was tossed across one of its legs, the couch had been moved a bit and the pillows lay scattered on the floor next to it. It was obvious that he had not given up without a fight. Just to make sure that she was not reading this scene wrong, she went into the bedroom and found it as untouched as it had been for the past seven months. The bathroom was also empty and the kitchen, too.

Running a hand over her face, she had trouble suppressing her immediate feelings for a moment, then dug her cell phone out of her pocket and called for help.


	7. Chapter 7

**Location unknown**

Slowly, he came to. He was greeted by the vague memory of a struggle, a thudding headache to prove it and the inability to move. His head snapped up sharply, pushing the headache up a notch, but his immediate disorientation allowed for nothing less.

Trying to blink, he realized he was blindfolded and sitting on a chair. His wrists and ankles were tied to the chair by what he could only identify as some kind of strong yet thin string. Turning his head a little, he listened to his surroundings, trying to hear beyond the heavy thudding of his own pulse in his ears. There was no sound.

After a moment, he focused on how he felt, trying to estimate how much damage he had sustained. It amazed him that not even the headache was very severe. It was there, but that was about it. He tried to brush the blindfold off and couldn't. In an attempt to bend forward so he could use his fingers to get it off, he found that he also had string tried around his chest, which cut into his flesh rather sharply.

Grinding his teeth in annoyance, he settled back again, trying to stay calm. The worst thing he could do right now was let the fear take over. And it was about to. Heaving a couple of deep breaths, he attempted to calm himself enough to think rationally. His attacker. Who had it been? He forced himself to remember, to jog that photographic memory of his, and vaguely remembered a woman. The fear escalated. No, he told himself sharply. Another few deep breaths brought his temper back down. Think, he admonished himself silently. Think clearly.

An image formed in his mind and he was certain that he had gotten it right this time. Yes, it had been her. She had rushed him before he could get to his gun. They had struggled, but she was stronger, faster. She had eventually knocked him out. How? He gave that some thought. His gun. Of course. She had hit him with the butt of his own gun.

The memory of the attack made him wince. What was it about him that made these ... females flock to him like this? He shook his head mentally, unable to fathom what made these women tick. And it made him feel helpless that he couldn't understand what drove them. It was his job to know such things. He has always been able to know how the monsters of the world thought. But these ones he couldn't understand. Maybe it was because their violence was pointed at him, somehow triggered by him in a way he could not understand. His mind worked overtime trying to come up with a solution for this one. If he could only grasp why they did this to him, he could put himself in their place, see things from their perspective and maybe, just maybe, talk his way out of this latest pinch.

Just then, he froze. Somebody had expelled hot breath against his neck. He heard nothing, but the feeling had been there. Turning his head a little, he listened into the silence, trying to hear the sounds another human being would necessarily make. There wasn't a sound to be heard.

"Hello?" he tried.

"Hi there." The words were breathed against his neck and they came so suddenly, that he jerked forward. A hand touched the back of his head, almost caressing his hair. "Easy. You're in a delicate position right now, Fox Mulder. A very delicate position. The chair you're sitting on is bolted to the floor. Your wrists, ankles and your chest are tied down with wire. You're blindfolded. You basically can't move and you can't see." The hand slipped away again. "So I would suggest that you sit there quietly and listen to what I have to say."

The only indication he got that she was moving was a slight draft. He couldn't hear her. She wasn't breathing in a way that was audible. And she certainly wasn't moving that way either. A finger trailed over his right arm, making him jerk again.

"I don't know yet if I'll let you get away from this one alive. It depends," she said, sounding as if she had moved across the room.

"On what?" he asked breathlessly, fighting the fear which threatened to consume him.

"On how much you know. On how deeply you're involved. It depends on whether or not you are . . ." She paused. He suddenly felt her hot breath on his lips and jerked backward, trying to get as far away from her as he could. "...part of their agenda."

"Wh ... who's agenda?" he stammered. The fact that she could move within range and not make a sound he could distinguish worried him to no end.

"Raoul's," she replied, her tone of voice icy. Feeling her hands lightly on his knees, he guessed she was squatting in front of him.

"Who's ... Raoul?" he asked, a little taken aback. He had a vague idea who she might be talking about, but he wasn't certain in any way.

"Bloodworth. Raoul Bloodworth, Fox Mulder. Our common ... friend." The word friend sounded like the hiss from an angry snake. She obviously didn't consider this man to be a friend.

Recoiling when he felt a distinct draft and then her breath on his face again, he tried to make sense of her words. "I don't know any Raoul Bloodworth."

"Yes, you do," she growled. "You just don't know his name." Rough, odd-smelling fingertips ran over his face.

He inhaled the smell, wondering what it was. The only thing he could relate that smell to was burnt flesh. The distinct smell a burnt corps had about it. "You're hurt," he finally said, ignoring her last comment. At the moment, he had to win her trust in some way, to make her understand that he might even be able to help her. All he really wanted, though, was to convince her that she didn't need to hurt him. "What happened to you?"

She drew back. "Nothing you should concern yourself about, Fox Mulder," she told him, her tone of voice giving away nothing. She moved behind him again, pressing her palms against the sides of his head. He tried to pull free but she held on tight. "Don't move," she breathed. He complied, afraid of what she might do if he didn't. She stood like that for a moment, her hands pressed against his head, then she let go and disappeared.

Frustrated because of his blindness, he turned his head to the right, listening behind him. But again there was no sound. "Where did you go?" he asked and received no reply. "Look, if you're hurt, maybe I can help you. My partner is a doctor."

That brought forth a reply of sorts. She chuckled. There was something distinctly mad about that chuckle. "Sweet, little Dana Kathrine Scully," she cooed. "I know she's a doctor, Fox. I also know that she can't help me. She doesn't have what it takes."

She was somewhere behind him. Turning his head as much to the right as he could, he attempted to establish some kind of contact with her. "She's more resourceful than you think," he replied, thinking of how much his partner had been there for him over the five years he had known her. "If you've got a problem, she can find the cure." A sudden, sharp slap ripped his head around. His right cheek burned from the impact and he wasn't sure why she had hit him in the first place.

"I don't have a problem," she snarled, angry now. "The Consortium and those old farts have a problem. Because I'm going to destroy their sick little plan for world domination."

That caught Mulder's attention instantly. What was this? The first real clue to what the Consortium was up to? World domination? How? "What are you talking about?" he asked, hoping that he wasn't pushing any buttons that might lead to his own destruction.

For the first time, she made a distinct sound as she plopped down on the floor. "They want to take over the world and fill it with their ideas of human beings. Sick bastards. They experiment on people. They take them away from their homes and alter them. They make them sick. They kill them. All in the name of their warped science. Didn't you know that?"

He shook his head. "No, I didn't," he confessed. "I want to stop them, too. I don't want the world altered. The people."

"They need you. I don't know why. Maybe it's just Raoul and his fucked-up little mind we've got to worry about. But the Consortium in general . . ." She trailed off and did not resume what she had been about to say.

"The Consortium what?" Mulder asked, disoriented. She didn't answer. "Where are you?"

A hand suddenly slipped under his chin and pushed his head backward against her stomach. "Right here," she whispered. She wasn't violent. Not yet. The worst she had so far done to him was knock him out and slap him. He could live with that if that was the extent of her brutality. "I don't think I need to tell you anymore. I think you know it already. I think you're just playing with me." Her other hand grabbed the back of his neck, clamping on tightly. He suddenly realized that she was in the position to break his neck right there and then. When he tried to speak, the pressure of her hand against his chin became stronger, preventing him for speaking. "I should kill you," she whispered. "I should kill you right now." She hesitated, then released him and backed away. "But I won't. No, I'll put you through hell first. Like they did with me."

"Listen to me for a moment, okay?" he begged, not sure it was the right approach. He couldn't quite get a grasp on what was wrong with her. "I have nothing to do with them. I don't approve of what they do. Whatever they did to you, I can help you get back at them. I have contacts." A sharp slap against the back of his head interrupted him.

"Shut up," she growled. "You've talked too much." With those words, she slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, effectively shutting him up. "You know, I don't like a lot of chatter, Fox," she added.

* * *

**10.45 a.m.  
A.D. Skinner's office  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

That Skinner was sitting behind his desk with an expression as dark as a thunder cloud, staring at her, didn't improve Scully's mood at all. He was angry. And baffled, too. As was she.

"What the hell is going on here?" he finally asked. It was beyond him why these people, whoever the hell they were, could keep on doing this to Mulder.

"I don't know, sir," Scully replied, shaking her head. She felt defeated, anxious, and ready to go after anybody who said anything wrong to her. "I talked to him last night. He was doing fine then."

Skinner got up and turned his back on her when he gazed out the window at the traffic far below them. The cars moved like ants down there and for a long moment, he didn't have anything to say. The honest truth was that he didn't know what to say. The whole thing had gotten way out of hand. "Did the forensics-team come up with anything? Any finger prints? Anything at all?" he wanted to know, not turning around.

"No. No finger prints. Mulder's prints are all over the place, of course. Mine are among them, too. And that's it. Nothing else. They're still checking the place out, but so far they have found nothing." Heaving a deep breath, she briefly closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. "I have ... no idea where he could be."

Skinner turned back to face her, his jaw set, his expression tense. "Then I guess we have to talk to ... >him' again," he said after a moment, not at all happy about the prospect.

"What's the use, sir? If he gets involved again, Mulder may turn up again, but what's the use if he keeps disappearing every three months?" Scully had a hard time keeping the anger out of her voice. Skinner was not the right person to take it out on. Although she would love to know what had happened four months ago, before Mulder had turned up again. Something had transpired between Skinner and the Smoker and he had never said anything about it.

"I'm just about as fed up as I can get with this," he growled and sat back down on his chair. "This is insane," he added.

Scully could do nothing more than nod. "I know. And I believe Mulder feels the same way about this," she agreed. "If indeed he's still alive."

Skinner's eyes narrowed as he stared at her. "No dreams about him this time?" he inquired. Scully shook her head. "At present, Scully, I'm ready to do whatever it takes to get him back in one piece and off the hook once and for all. If we just knew what lies behind this insufferable need to ... well ... in want of better words ... abduct him all the time." More distressed about this than he was willing to show, Skinner leaned back on his chair and pulled his glasses off, absentmindedly polishing them with a handkerchief he had pulled from his coat pocket. "I would love to know what the hell this is all about. There must be a reason for this ... continued madness."

"These ... women are clones. Obviously, there must be an original. A real person. I can't help thinking that this woman ... providing she's still alive, that is ... must in some way have transferred this ... madness to the clones. We still don't fully know how the hereditary cycle works when it comes to madness. Whether it's in the genes or something else. If this is gene-based, then it's no wonder the clones are mad." Shaking her head, she briefly wondered why she would even think about that. It didn't lead them to Mulder. "In any event, I have no idea whatsoever where to start looking. And ... I don't know if he's still out there. I think he might be. I mean, he would have been dead a long time ago if these ... women wanted him dead."

Skinner sighed. "I don't want to hear about clones, Scully. I want to find out where Mulder is and what the hell is going on." Annoyed at the whole thing, he tapped his pen on the desk top after putting his glasses back on. "We need a profiler on this one."

Scully nodded in understanding although she had no idea who he would assign to a case like this. "That might be a good idea. Who do we have?"

Heaving a deep breath, the Assistant Director stared at Scully for a moment, wondering how she was going to take what he would tell her. "Usually, this would be the kind of case I would assign Mulder to. Instead, we have to put our faith in the new whiz-kid to come out of Quantico. She's been working as a criminal profiler with the VCS for over a year now and her profiles have led to some amazing arrests. She has been able to find killers and criminals in general where nobody else could even find a clue. She's sharp, she's young and very calm from what I hear. I haven't met her myself yet, but I think we'll go with her."

It didn't take much for Scully to realize that something was up. He wasn't keen on telling her this new profiler's name. "What's her name?" she prodded. "Maybe I've heard of her."

"I doubt it," Skinner replied. "Her name is Anna Krycek."

* * *

**Time unknown  
Location unknown**

After having gained control over his worst fears, Mulder was able to relax a little. Not being able to defend himself verbally when he could not move or see was among the worst things that could happen to him. His overactive mind produced all kinds of strange scenarios which furthered his need to panic and he had to clamp down on these feelings as hard as he could.

It had taken him time to gain the much needed control over his breathing and now that he had, he felt light-headed and utterly disoriented. The fact that his abductor had left him alone for a while now didn't exactly make things better, either. The way she could move, he wouldn't know she was back before she was right next to him. Not that he could do anything about it anyway. But if he could see her or hear her, at least he could prepare for the worst. The shock of a sudden slap or, for that matter, the stab of a knife would be enough to send him reeling out over the edge right now. Breathing deeply a couple of times, he tried to shake the eerie feeling that somebody or something was watching him.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bare room, Phoenix watched her prisoner dispassionately. She had been sitting only a few steps away from him for over an hour now, patiently watching him stir at any sound, imagined or real. It thrilled her to no end that he could not make her out among the rather poor selection of sounds in this room. There were no traffic sounds as there was no traffic for miles around. There were no people in this area, either. Nature could not be heard here, no birds, no sounds made by natural things.

Wincing sharply at a stabbing pain in her head, she knew that her time was drawing nearer. Soon, she would die. And Fox Mulder would be left in this room to die with her. Only he would die slowly. She would go out with a bang. Rubbing her right temple with one finger, she eyed him closely. She could mess him up a bit before she went. Just to make sure he wasn't going to survive. Eventually, somebody would find them. That is, they would find him. There wouldn't be much left of her. She knew that. Although she wasn't a clone, her body-structure would be broken down and dissolved by the alien blood which flowed in her veins.

Thinking back to the experiments she had been put through when she had been younger made her snarl. Both in anger and pain. She had been nothing but a kid when they had taken her. Removed her from her natural surroundings and stuffed her into a lab, bound at first like a lab-rat. Later, she had been allowed to wander around the establishment they had kept her in. They had taken tissue-samples to recreate her. When she had been old enough, they had taken her ova. All of them. She was barren as a desert now, unable to ever produce life on her own. Not that she would want to put children into this messed-up world. Besides, she didn't have the time any more. And the tests had made her mad. She had been given shots for this madness. They had tried to suppress it because she had great potential, they said. Potential? She almost spat on the floor. Great potential? To become what? An unfeeling, uncaring creature with no resemblance to her human heritage?

She breathed in silently. >I'm nothing short of a monster,' she thought and grinned joylessly. Well, she knew how important Fox Mulder was to the Consortium. So she would kill him to get back at them. The unfairness of this act was not yet totally lost on her and she in general felt sorry for him, but she was not going to give up on her plan. Somebody had to pay.

Distracting herself temporarily from her sad reverie, she glanced toward the outer wall of the room and frowned. The slightly moist scent had not escaped her previously, but she had been too preoccupied to do anything about it. Now she knew where it came from. The outer wall was damp. She got up and moved soundlessly over there to touch the damp plaster.

For a moment, it occupied her mind, then the muffled sounds of her prisoner rearranged her priorities. Turning around on her heel, she walked back to him and sat down in front of him again, never once giving him anything to listen to.

* * *

**11.02 a.m.  
A.D. Skinner's office  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

Scully stared at her supervisor in nothing short of shock. He might as well have told her that the new profiler's name was Satan and that she resided in Hell. "Her name is what?" she asked, too stunned to react properly.

Skinner sighed again, folded his hands and propped his elbows on the edge of the desk. "Her name is Anna Krycek. Believe me, Scully, I had the same doubts you do. But, as far as I can tell, she's got nothing to do with ... him. Nothing is mentioned in her file about any family relations to ... him. She's half Polish, half British, born and raised in Wisconsin, Illinois. And she's among the best profilers to come out of Quantico in a good long while. We need her assistance."

"This cannot be a coincidence, sir," Scully began, but Skinner gave her a sharp look, making her shut up at once.

"Nevertheless, it is, Scully. Besides, I don't think we should consider them that stupid. To place a woman with the same name amidst our ranks would be the same as asking for trouble. If you still have doubts, you can ask her yourself. She'll be here in a moment."

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. It opened and a woman as tall as Mulder stepped inside. She had a shock of pitch-black hair harnessed in a braid hanging over her right shoulder and the bluest eyes either of them had ever seen. High cheekbones indicated that she might have more than just Polish and British ancestors. Native American heritage came to mind immediately. She greeted both of them in a calm, quiet manner and took a seat when Skinner told her to.

"Agent Krycek," he started, obviously uncomfortable about her last name, yet doing what he could to suppress it. "This is special agent Dana Scully. You'll be working with her until we have found out what happened to special agent Mulder."

"Yes, sir," she replied, her tone of voice melodious and pleasant to listen to. "I will of course need all the information you can give me," she added, directing this at Scully. Scully in turn nodded, but refrained from speaking just yet.

"Of course," Skinner inserted with a warning glance at Scully. "The sooner you two get on this, the better. We would like to see agent Mulder again. Alive." That said, he dismissed both women.

* * *

**Basement office**

Scully led the way down to the basement office, painfully aware of her somewhat cool disposition. She couldn't help it. Although she tried desperately to suppress this, she felt that she could see a similarity in the features of the woman following her down the corridor. Opening the door to the office, she stepped inside.

Anna Krycek followed her in and glanced around the office. The obvious comment which Scully expected didn't come, though. "Agent Scully, it may just be my imagination, but I get the feeling that you don't like me," Anna said after a moment's worth of silence.

Scully heaved a deep breath and decided to play with open cards for now. "I'm sorry if I come across a little ... tense, but you must remember that it's my partner who is missing and I would really love to get this one rolling so we can find him. As for me not ... uhm ... liking you, I have a question for you and I would appreciate it if you would answer it truthfully."

Anna nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Do you have a brother, or a cousin maybe, called Alex Krycek?" Scully asked. She knew it was very forward of her to ask such a question just because the woman had the same last name, but she had to be sure. She knew for certain that she could neither work with nor trust this woman if she didn't know for certain.

"Uhm . . ." Anna began, looking a little perplexed. "No. Why?"

Scully stared intently at her for a moment, then dismissed it with a shrug. "I was just wondering," she said vaguely. "Should we get on with this?"

* * *

**03.30 a.m.  
August 10**

Anna yawned for the umpteenth time, shook her head hard and focused on the havoc of papers on the desk in front of her. "Okay, so the likelihood that he has, once again, been abducted or kidnapped or whatever you want to call it by the same woman is quite big. I mean, who else would benefit from dragging him out of his apartment in the middle of the night?"

Scully shrugged and emptied another cup of coffee. "I don't know. I've come to the same conclusion. It must be her. But ... I was told that she was dead." Fighting a losing battle to suppress a yawn of her own, she pressed a hand over her lips for a moment.

"Right. But you didn't see the body. So, theoretically, she could still be alive and ... well ... quite able to hurt him again. Do you have any idea why she's doing this?" Anna asked.

Finally giving in to it, Scully yawned heartily and shook her head at the same time. "No. I don't know why." She had a clue, but to mention that to Anna meant telling her everything and that wasn't what she wanted to do right now. Eventually, she would probably have to. "I think we should call it a night, anyway. I can't see straight any more. Let's go home, get some sleep and meet back here around seven. Okay?"

Anna nodded. "Good idea," she replied and got up, stretching. "I've got a car. Can I drop you off somewhere?"

Scully shook her head in reply. "No, thanks. I've got a car at my disposal, too," she said, picked up her coat and headed for the door. "See you in four hours," she added.

"Three and a half," Anna replied, grabbed her own coat and followed Scully out.

* * *

**04.10 a.m.  
Dana Scully's Residence  
3170 West 53 Road  
Annapolis  
Maryland**

Scully sighed deeply. Forget it, she told herself. She couldn't sleep. Not while her partner was still out there, maybe in dire need of her help. She shuffled through the papers she had taken home with her after brewing an extra strong pot of coffee and settled down on her couch to think it through. Five minutes later, she was out cold.

* * *

**07.10 a.m.  
Basement office  
J. Edgar Hoover building  
Washington, D.C.**

Scully dropped her briefcase on the desk and looked over at Anna, who was already at work, meticulously going over the conclusions they had arrived at the night before. "How long have you been here?" she asked with a slight frown.

Anna glanced up at her, gave her a ghost of a smile, and sighed. "About ten minutes or so. Did you get any sleep?" she wanted to know.

"A little. What about you?" Scully pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

"I couldn't stop thinking about this. I get the feeling that there's something I'm missing. I just don't know what." She shook her head weakly, staring down at a compilation she had written down by hand.

Scully eyed her for a moment, then decided to go the whole stretch. She still didn't feel entirely comfortable about this woman, but on the other hand, Mulder was still out there, probably in need of help. "Okay, I've got some more information for you which you might be able to use."

Scully told her about the first encounter Mulder had been through with the shape-shifter, leaving nothing out. She expected Anna to perhaps scoff the idea of a shape-shifter, to disbelief the severity of the injuries her partner had sustained, but once she was done telling her about, Anna's expression remained serious.

"Jesus," she finally breathed, leaning back on the chair. "That must have been very ... bad for him," she added, her tone of voice full of compassion.

Scully nodded, a little stunned by Anna's reaction. "It was. It still is. And it's also very embarrassing. That's why you can never tell anybody else about what I just said. Never. They will use it against him." She hoped and prayed that Anna would understand the seriousness of this.

Anna nodded. "Of course not. I never would," she replied. Her eyes narrowed while she thought this over. "That puts everything a new perspective, doesn't it?" she mumbled. "So, the first time she turns up, she attacks him at home. Disguised as you, no less." Scratching her right temple with one finger, she made a face. "That means they are trying to drive you apart. It doesn't work, though. However, I severely doubt that the second attack was part of their plan. It would be too obvious." Staring intently at Scully, she tried to arrange all the details in her mind. "Meaning that this ... female got a taste for what she did to him. It's not so much the sexual act as the pain she could administer. Clearly a nutcase."

Scully nodded. "I've figured as much myself. And that would also give us a motive for why she did it again. But ... and this is important ... we shot one of these clones. Whether it was the one who originally attacked him, I don't know."

"Probably not. The one who originally attacked him sounds a whole lot more aggressive. She would not have come up to the front door. She would have found a way of maybe getting into the house without being noticed. Now, the second attack ... that one leaves me a little confused. Unless of course the first one is no longer among us and one of her ... uhm ... sisters wants revenge. That could justify the beating and the fact that he told you afterward that she almost killed him. If it hadn't been for that dark-haired woman, who turned up out of nowhere and was responsible for his second abduction. She, however, doesn't seem to be a part of this agenda. She's an outsider, a ... protector perhaps. Apparently, she killed the one who beat him up and took it upon her own shoulders to get him off the drug again."

The way Anna thought was no new experience for Scully. She could see much of Mulder's mind working in this one. "I have a hunch who is behind that. Mainly, I think that his opposition had something to do with the drug. My feeling is, that it was never meant to hit the market. It's something they've been tampering with and it got out by accident."

Nodding her head, Anna grabbed her mug and took a sip of tea. "Right. So, nobody was supposed to be on it. And it vanishes from the market immediately after he's been weaned of the drug. Okay, so maybe we should not pay any attention to the dark-haired woman right now. She may not be important. The first one of these shape-shifters came back to his apartment twice. Then you killed one of them and that gave him a little peace. Then one of them resurfaces, takes him to a remote old house and beats the crap out of him. Remote is the keyword here. These women don't like to be interrupted, which means that he has probably been taken to another remote house."

"That might be right," Scully agreed, fiddling absentmindedly with the corner of a sheet of paper. "But, what I don't understand is why."

"Actually, the why is not as important as the where right now. If we can figure out where they might have taken him, then ... we've got him." Frowning, Anna leaned forward and shuffled through some of the papers, looking for something. "Where did you say that cottage was where you took him after the second attack in his apartment?"

Scully frowned. "Uhm ... up in the Appalachians. Why?"

"Where exactly? Is it close to any towns?"

"Uhm ... yeah, it's close to Fulks Run. It's up in the George Washington National Forest. You don't think that she would take him there, do you?" Scully asked, sounding utterly surprised.

Anna pulled out a map and studied it for a moment, then glanced at Scully. "No, not back to the cabin, but maybe somewhere in the area. It is rather remote up there. And if the one that showed up at the cabin wasn't the one who attacked him in his apartment, then maybe they are located in the area. Maybe they hide out up there somewhere. It would make sense. I'll make some calls."

* * *

**Time unknown  
Location unknown**

Mulder was slowly but sourly losing it. Having his senses cut off like this was driving him mad. He heard things he couldn't identify and being unable to move was putting an incredible strain on him. His hands were numb and his fingers felt swollen. He was thirsty and hungry and unable to judge how long he had been in this place. The glue from the duct tape covering his mouth was scuffing his lips, leaving them raw. The constant burning feeling and the taste of the glue was making him queasy. He cleared his throat for the umpteenth time and rolled his shoulders a little to keep his joints from freezing up completely. More than once had he thought that being beaten up was almost better than just sitting here in the dark, waiting for something to happen.

He suddenly heard another of those sounds he could not identify. A kind of whistling through the air. But this time, it resulted in pain. Horrible pain radiating out from halfway down his left thigh. He felt the knife slice through his flesh and the muscle which instantly contracted at the harsh treatment and widened the gash made by the knife. It happened so suddenly that he had no chance to react properly before the pain, white-hot and blinding in intensity, spread through him. The knife went all the way through and embedded itself in the wood of the chair beneath his leg.

His breath suspended by the shock of the action, he sat rigid for a moment, every muscle in his body tense. Then he expelled a painful breath through his nose, clamping his teeth together against the pain. And all the while, he kept chanting to himself >I've had worse, I've had worse.' He had to convince himself of this.

Once again hyper-ventilating, he fought the nausea, the sick feeling to his stomach like nothing before. His pulse hammered away in his ears, drowning out any other sound. He knew that the pain, although bad, wasn't as bad as what he otherwise had experienced. It was the shock of the sudden and completely unprovoked attack that had stolen his ability to stay calm.

And then he felt her hands on his shoulders. "Soon, Fox Mulder, I will die. And when I die, you will be left here to rot. A slow, painful death. You'll starve to death, die of dehydration. Whichever comes first. And you know why?"

Whimpering, he shook his head.

"Because they promised me I would not go mad. But I am, as you have probably guessed, quite mad. And they are to blame. So to get back at them ... a final death-cramp of mine you might call it ... I'm taking away one of their most important assets. I'm taking you to my grave. And I'm going to hold onto you for all eternity. You see, they killed all my sisters. All my beautiful sisters. The only family I remember. They took me away from my home when I was nothing but a baby. They did tests on me. They changed me, altered me genetically. And for what? So they could once again drown one of their failures. They tried to keep me sane. I got shots for that, you know. But eventually, they scrapped this part of the program. I became ... how shall I say ... too much of a burden for them." She let out a gasp, her hands tightening on his shoulders for a second. Breathing in sharply, she held her breath for a second, waiting for the pain to subside so she could continue. "I just don't want you to die without knowing why you die. You see, I don't want to repeat their most common mistake."

Tears stinging his eyes, he wished he could speak, reason with her, but all he was able to produce were muffled sounds she couldn't understand.

She padded his right shoulder. "Sorry about the leg, Fox. It's just to make sure that you don't get loose and run away. You know, I am really sorry about this whole mess. It's ... silly, really. I shouldn't take my hatred for them out on you. But I know I'll hamper their efforts valiantly if I kill you. But I'm not a killer. I can't ... per say ... kill you. So, I'm just going to sit down in front of you and wait for death to take me, knowing that we will join up again on the other side." She ran a hand harshly over his hair, a brutal caress. "You know, all the pain will be gone on the other side. There won't be anything left to fear. It'll be beautiful. We'll never have to worry about anything again." She was rambling. She knew that. But she just couldn't stop it.

Mulder was terrified. Listening to her words, her mad words, he tried not to let them affect him. Not too long ago, when Scully had been dying of cancer and he had felt the blame for it heavily on his shoulders, hadn't he thought the same thing? That the pain would end if he killed himself? But Scully had survived and he had, too. In a sense, she was his life line. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling tears oozing out underneath the blindfold and rolling down his face, he leaned his head back and begged for her to find him. Soon. Because only she could make the pain end. Only she could help him now.

Phoenix stepped around him, her eyes on the knife sticking up from his left thigh, and briefly thought of pulling it out. But something made her decide against it. Instead, she picked up the second, stiletto-sized knife and admired the pureness of the steel for a moment. Then her eyes flicked back to her prisoner while she tested the tip of the knife with one thumb over and over again, drawing green blood from her skin.

The intensity of the vapors of her green blood, although it was so little, hit Mulder full force. He gasped as much as he was able to when it hit his eyes, burning them. Moaning, he realized that something was happening to the woman who had brought him here.

Phoenix stopped cutting her thumb with the knife and looked down at the stiletto. Most of the tip had been burnt off by the acid of her blood. She cursed silently under her breath and turned for the door. Something she had not previously noticed caught her attention and once again brought to the still rational part of her mind that she was going crazy. Water was seeping in under the door. Frowning, she went over and opened the door, looking out into the hallway beyond. At the end of the hallway, by the outer wall of the basement, water was leaking into the building. "Damn it all to hell," she mumbled and walked toward the stairs leading up to the ground floor. She needed another knife, another stiletto.


	8. Chapter 8

**04.33 p.m.  
Basement office  
J. Edgar Hoover building**

Anna Krycek leaned back on the chair, impatiently tapping a pen onto the smooth surface of Mulder's desk and frowned at nothing, the receiver of the phone clamped in between her ear and her right shoulder. She had been on the phone more or less constantly since this morning, trying to get a hold of someone who knew something about property for sale in Virginia's higher regions. Finally, the phone at the other end was picked up. Smiling, she leaned forward again. "Hi, my name is Anna Krycek. I'm calling from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I've got a question about property for sale up in the Appalachians around Fulks Run and I was wondering if you could help me out there." She perked up. "You could? Excellent. The thing is, I'm trying to trace whether any single females have bought any kind of remote property in that area over ... say the last few months. Maybe even as far back as a year. B That's great. I'll hold."

Holding her hand over the mouth piece, she looked over at Scully. "This guy sells property up there," she whispered, then removed her hand from the mouth piece again.

"Yes? You don't, huh?" She didn't look happy. "Nothing? How about further out like Bergton? Anything in that area?" She waited for a moment, patiently hearing the man out. "Really? An old mansion that has been empty for years? - Did she now? - Really? - What was her name, if you don't mind my asking?" She gave Scully a thumbs-up. "Phoenix? A bit of an eccentric? Yeah, I bet." She laughed at something the man said. "Could you give me a description of how to get there?" She nodded, grabbed a piece of paper and sketched a route. "She did, huh? - No kidding? - Wow. Okay. Listen, thank you so much. You've been such a great help. Thank you. - Yes, I'll be sure to call on you if I need any property in that area. Thanks again. Bye-bye." Hanging up, she triumphantly raised the piece of paper. "I think this is it."

Scully got off her chair. "Talk to me," she urged her.

"This guy sold an old mansion that was just about ready to be torn down to a woman he says was a bit far out. But she had the cash, so he sold her the house. Apparently, she had it redone completely. And get this. She had a moat installed. A real, live moat. And a drawbridge, too."

Scully stared at her, a little confused. "What makes you think that this is it?"

Anna leaned back on the chair, the look of a satisfied cat about her. "Because the woman who bought this house called herself Phoenix and he swears he saw at least three women together looking exactly alike. All of them matching the description you gave me of that female who first attacked Mulder."

"Okay. That's good enough for me," Scully replied. "Grab your things. We're leaving. We just have to fill Skinner in."

* * *

**05.10 p.m.  
A.D. Skinner's office**

A.D. Skinner looked up when Dana Scully and Anna Krycek more or less stormed into his office unannounced. Before he had a chance to tell them off about it, they both started talking, glanced at each other and then Anna backed down and let Scully do the talking.

"Sorry about barging in like this, sir, but we think we know where to find agent Mulder. A woman matching the description of that ... female who first attacked him has bought an old, remote house up there and we have reason to believe that she might have taken him there."

Skinner stared at her for a moment, the reprimand stuck in his throat. "Up where?" he asked, glancing from one to the other, then fixing his stare on Scully.

"Bergton. It's south-west of here," Scully said.

"I know where Bergton is," he replied gruffly, then again glanced at Anna and then back to Scully. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get going. Get in touch with the local police force up there when you arrive and tell them to back you up. I'll give Bergton a call right now," he added, grabbed the receiver of his phone and thereby ended the conversation.

Both women stormed out the way they had entered and Skinner briefly glanced after them, more than a little surprised at Scully's seemingly reckless behavior. Shaking his head, he went about making that call to the police station in Bergton.

* * *

**05.34 p.m.  
On US 50**

Scully drove like she never had before in her life. With a speed of just above 75 miles per hour, she was likely to catch the attention of a traffic police man, but at the moment she didn't care. Not until Anna cleared her throat.

"Don't you think you should slow down a bit? We won't be able to help your partner if we're being detained by a traffic cop," she said, looking a little nervous.

Scully could understand the reasoning in that and blamed her need to hurry so on being over tired. She slowed the car down to the designated 65 miles per hour and kept the car on that speed. "Sure, you're right," she agreed. "I've just seen him the other times and he needed help desperately. He's been gone for nearly two days now and I can't help thinking . . ." She shook her head, aware of how desperate she sounded.

"I know. If it were my partner, I would feel the same. Believe me. But it still doesn't help him if we're being held back by a busy-body of a traffic cop. And, believe me, they don't give a damn about us being Feds," Anna said, totally relaxed again.

Scully kept her eyes on the road and the other cars but had trouble keeping her mind from wandering. "How did you come up with this idea, anyway?" she asked, hoping to strike up a conversation that would keep her focus on the road ahead.

"Just a hunch. I've had a lot of those over the past year and a half and, obviously, my colleagues think it's a good thing. My mom always told me to stop being so imaginative. She was certain it would get me in trouble some day." Anna chuckled under her breath, amused at the memory.

"I'm glad that you didn't listen to your mother's advise," Scully said, glancing over at Anna with a smile. If this turned out to be a good hunch, she would never distrust this woman again. "I just hope it's right, too."

"Yeah, me too," Anna sighed and settled back in her seat. "What's he really like, your partner?"

That question confused Scully a little. "Really like?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Fox Mulder has a ... uhm ... certain reputation among the employees of this reportedly noble institution we work for. I was just wondering if he's really off his rocker or if it's just the typical silly rumors brilliant men like him are exposed to?"

Scully couldn't help smiling. "I take it you don't believe in the supernatural and alien abductions?" she asked after a moment, feeling a little odd about having this conversation. This was usually Mulder's side of the game.

"Well, I believe in most things that I can see. I believe in a few things I can't. It always depends on the circumstances in the end. If I experience something that really rocks my world, I will probably end up believing it. But, no, I don't believe in alien abductions," Anna confessed, watching the road ahead of them without really seeing it.

"Neither did I. Before I met Mulder. Now I'm not so sure," Scully replied. "And to answer your question, no, Fox Mulder is not off his rocker. He's a very brilliant and talented man who is being picked on by his peers due to various reasons. Jealousy is one, I'm sure."

* * *

**Location unknown**

At first he could not think beyond the pain. The throbbing in his leg combined with the continued nausea did little to increase his need to pay attention to his surroundings. It was only when something cold and moist wrapped itself around his ankles that he managed to take his mind off the pain. Water. Ice-cold water was lapping over his feet. Then he heard the splashing.

One hand clamped down on his right shoulder, causing him to expel a sigh. "You know," she said and whimpered, her grip briefly tightening. "I really hate to do this to you." And with that said, she stabbed another knife into his right side.

If he could have screamed, he would. But as it were, the duct-tape prevented this. Instead he managed to tear his lower lip painfully and the blood gushing out of the wound increased his nausea. Swallowing hard a couple of times, knowing for a fact that he would suffocate in his own vomit if his nausea escalated any further, he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on ignoring the new pain and the nausea.

Her grip on his shoulder vanished and he heard her splashing through the water on the floor. "Damn it. My moat is leaking into the house," she said after a moment, her voice weak.

Mulder was distracted from his misery by those words. A moat? That made him wonder where he was. Another resounding splash interrupted that train of thought.

Gasping now, Phoenix settled on the floor in the freezing water, briefly thinking that she had not expected death to hurt this much. Her head was in constant agony, throbbing and pounding away like with a heartbeat of its own. Through all this, she smiled.

"You won't have to suffer long, Fox Mulder," she confessed, looking around her at the rising water level. "Same time tomorrow evening, the water should have risen enough for you to be submerged up to your chest. By that time, you'll probably have frozen to death. It's damned cold, this water. If you don't die of the temperature, you'll drown the day after." She had sat down with her back to the wall, seeking support. Leaning back against it, she kept on smiling and felt a little regretful that he couldn't see it. She knew she looked crazy. And horrible, too. The disintegration of her body had started already, beginning before she was even dead. "At least you won't have to worry about the fumes of my disintegrating body. The water will remove the problem," she added and coughed. Green acid blood spattered the water surface in front of her. "There's a time for everything, you know. A time for living and a time for dying. A time for love and a time for hate," she went on, her voice distorted by her crumbling vocal cords. "Time ... to die," she whispered, feeling life ebbing away. For a moment longer, she stared at her prisoner, then her head dropped forward, her chin hitting her chest. Slowly, she keeled over.

Mulder knew she was dead when he heard her body hit the water. He also knew that he would be dead soon, too. The water was up around his ankles and he had no doubt whatsoever that it would be up around his chest in twenty-four hours. If indeed he had not drowned by then already. Once again, he focused his thoughts on the one person who might care.

* * *

**08.20 p.m.  
Bergton Police Station**

Scully stood ridged, staring at the log of a man who was the chief of police of the Bergton Police force, unwilling to understand what he had just said. "Excuse me, Chief Meyers," she said, her tone of voice icy. "I don't care if the judge is out of town. A man's life is at stake here," she insisted. She had asked for their assistance and they were more than willing to give it, providing they had a search warrant. As the Judge was out of town and nobody obviously knew where he was, police chief Stan Meyers had told Scully that she would have to wait until the next morning, where judge Hemingway would be back and not unlikely to give them the warrant.

"I realize that, agent Scully," Meyers said in an overbearing tone of voice. "But we're not doing anything without a warrant and the only one in town capable of issuing one is out of town until late tonight or early tomorrow morning. So, until then, we can plan but we can't act." A smile curled the corners of his lips. "Why don't you just check into the local motel and cool your heels for a few hours?" he suggested. "I don't know how you people do business in a big town like Washington, but here we don't disturb our good townsfolk, be they ever so crazy, without a warrant."

Scully was about to blow a fuse when a hand grabbed her arm. "That's fine, chief Meyers," Anna said, her eyes boring into those of the police chief. "If you could just give us the judge's address, we'll wait in front of his house until he comes home. Then we'll get the warrant."

Meyers was not happy about it, but relented and gave them the address.

Eventually, Anna was able to drag a fuming Dana Scully from the police station back to their car. "I'm sorry, Dana," she said after a moment. "I didn't mean to override you, but I know townsfolk like these. You can't start bossing them around without knowing which buttons to push."

For a moment, Scully sat there on the front seat of the car, then she slowly turned her head and stared at Anna. "I'm glad you overrode me. I was about to blow up in his face and I realize now that it would have done us no good. Let's get to that address. Maybe we're lucky and the judge is home."

Anna nodded, smiling weakly. "We'll be on time. I'm sure we will."

"I hope so," Scully replied darkly and put the car in gear. "Because if we're too late, this town will be looking for a new chief of police." With that hazardous remark she drove off toward the judge's house.

* * *

**Location unknown**

Mulder tried to swallow, painfully aware of how dry his mouth was. Leaning his head back a little, he tried to estimate his state of health. It didn't look too good from what he could sense. Cold sweat covered his body and the water was halfway up his shins now, rendering the lower part of his legs numb. Wincing, he flexed his fingers and moaned quietly. The house was silent now. No sounds. His captor was gone, lying dead in the water before him somewhere, and he was stuck here, on a chair bolted to the floor, tied down by unrelenting wire, hurt, cold and desperate. All he wanted was for this to end. One way or another.

He knew that if he got away from here in once piece, alive, there would be no more attacks of this kind. But his hopes for that kind of release were dwindling with every inch the water rose around him. He couldn't hear the flow of water from anywhere, which probably meant that it was seeping in quietly. But that didn't stop it, of course. He was aware that his former fear of this female had dwindled. Knowing that there were no more left made him feel slightly more secure. He knew he could beat this if he got a second ... or rather a third chance at this.

A shiver ran through him when he tried to open his eyes behind the blindfold. For a minute, he had forgotten that the vapors of her blood had singed his eyes. It had been a stroke of luck that his nose had not clogged up from the painful attack of the vapors. Otherwise he would have slowly but sourly suffocated to death. Focusing on his aching right side, he tried to sense the severity of the wound, but all he got from that was rising nausea.

Letting his head drop back, he again thought of Scully, letting her image take away the pain he was in. 'Please, find me,' he begged mutely.

* * *

**10.45 p.m.  
In front of Judge Hemingway's residence**

Scully glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time and sent another scowling look up at the judge's house. She could not for the life of her understand why these people were so uncooperative. In her mind there was no question of the seriousness of this event and she hated to think that they were wasting time here if this wasn't the place. Her partner, her friend, could be dying somewhere, needing her, and she was sitting here, waiting for a man to come home from what was probably a party somewhere.

Rubbing both hands over her face, she knew she looked disheveled, but she didn't really care one way or another. Having this time on her hands, her mind started wandering again and this time, she let it. Her subconscious was trying to tell her something and now she was ready to listen. Leaning back, she briefly glanced over at Anna, who was staring out at the street with a distant look in her eyes. "What are you thinking of?" Scully asked after a moment.

Anna blinked, then glanced at Scully with a smile. "Oh, nothing," she said, fiddling with a wedding band around her right ring finger.

Scully suddenly realized that she had not thought of that Anna's last name might be her married name. She stared at the wedding band for a moment. "You're married?" she then asked.

Anna glanced down at her ring and smiled again. There was warmth in that smile. Love, even. "Yeah, I am." Heaving a deep breath, the smile turned sad. "I guess."

Frowning, Scully stared at her. "What do you mean, you guess? Don't you know if you're married?"

Anna chuckled. "I am married. I just don't know where he is. He ... vanished some time ago. And I've been on my own ever since. It's a weird feeling, really. He's ... I don't know ... not easy to keep track of."

Old fears and suspicions rose in Scully at Anna's words. She could do fairly little to suppress them. "What's your husband's name?" she asked.

Suddenly apprehensive, Anna bit her lower lip. Before she had a chance to answer, though, a car came down the road and pulled into the drive way in front of the judge's house.

Both women got out at the same time and approached the elderly, dignified-looking man who had just gotten out of his car. "Judge Hemingway?" Scully asked.

He turned around and readjusted his glasses in one go. "Yes?" he replied, looking confused.

"I'm special agent Dana Scully of the FBI. This is agent Anna Krycek. We need a warrant for a house search and it's very important that we get this under way as soon as possible. A man's life is at stake," Scully said, holding up her badge for him to see.

Judge Callum Hemingway eyed the two disheveled-looking women for a moment, then focused his attention on Scully. "A search warrant?" he asked, a little taken aback by this. He wasn't as sober as he should have been and he was also tired after having spent the evening in the company of his daughter and son-in-law and the party they had thrown in the next town over. "Uhm ... please. Come in," he finally said, having gotten a grip on himself again. He waved toward the dark house. "Let me just hear why you need this search warrant and for which house and I'll consider it."

* * *

**12.03 a.m.  
August 11**

Scully stood back while Anna handled the local police force with cunning. Chief Meyers had to call in his people first and that took time. Although Scully would have liked to have pushed the man a little more, she trusted in Anna's obvious abilities to handle the situation. Within an hour, they had assembled sixteen men, ready to go.

Scully and Anna drove along with the rest of them to the house in question, a drive which took another half hour. Around 2 a.m., they stood outside a house which looked like a cheap caricature of an ancient, European castle. Mainly because the house itself was an ordinary house, yet it was surrounded by a moat and had a draw bridge installed. Scully looked up at the odd combination of 19th century building style combined with that of ... say ... the 15th century. Shaking her head, she then glanced over at chief Meyers. "How do we get in there?" she wanted to know.

Meyers had been staring up at the draw bridge after making certain that there wasn't a back-entrance. Now he glanced back at Scully. "We'll get in. It may take a little while, though. We've got to get a chainsaw out here and some way of getting across that moat." Shaking his head in wonder, he briefly regarded the dark water of the 10-foot wide moat. "Whatever the hell possessed this woman to have a moat installed I wouldn't even be able to guess at," he grumbled and went to work.

* * *

**02.45 a.m.**

The water was rising faster now. Mulder could feel it edging up his legs. Getting desperate while he felt his time running out, he kept his thoughts on Scully, on what he could do to improve their relationship. He had come to the conclusion that if she saved him again, it was meant to be. If he came out of this one alive, he would be different. He would give her the attention she deserved. He would treat her right. >Just, please, let me survive this. Please!' he begged silently.

* * *

**03.00 a.m.**

Scully covered her ears while the chainsaw cut into the wood of the draw bridge. Within one hour, the cops had managed to create a bridge leading across the moat so the guy with the chainsaw, a local lumberjack, could walk out there and cut a hole. He did his job well and within fifteen minutes, he had carved a hole into the bridge. Then the locksmith was sent through to open the door beyond and lower the draw bridge.

* * *

**03.05 a.m.**

Mulder raised his head suddenly. A sound cut through the building he couldn't recognize at first. Then he identified it as the sound of a chainsaw cutting through wood. It sounded far away, though, and he feared that it might be outside and that whoever was cutting trees down in this area would never think about checking this house.

He moaned in anguish and fear, the water now lapping against his mid-section. There was one good thing about the water, though. It had numbed the pain from both stab-wounds. Although he was so cold he was shivering, he could think more clearly. Not that it in any way would help him out of this predicament.

The water had reached the arms of the chair and had a good effect on his swollen hands. The swelling had gone down considerably, but the numbness in his fingers had not gone away.

* * *

**03.25 a.m.**

The draw bridge started to rumble down, the chains holding it squeaking loudly until the bridge settled on the edge of the moat. The locksmith came back over. "No sign of anybody home," he said to chief Meyers, took his leave of the others and went home again.

Meyers glanced at Scully. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded and walked briskly across the bridge and stepped into a completely empty hallway. Looking around, she shivered in the cool air of the house.

Meyers was right behind her, followed by his men. "Okay, guys, spread out, search the premises. Look for signs of any occupants. Start at the top and go to the bottom," he ordered.

The sixteen officers started spreading out, most of them going upstairs to search through the big house.

"Agent Scully, do you two want to join in or should we do this on our own?"

Scully glared at him for a moment. "We'll join in. We'll take basement," she replied and started searching for the door or staircase leading down. "Anna, come on," she urged her reluctant counter-part.

Anna followed Scully a little hesitantly. "It smells wet in here," she commented.

"That's because this house is surrounded by a moat and it's not built for that. I wouldn't be surprised if the basement was flooded," Scully replied, opening one door after another, finding various rooms, the kitchen and a bathroom, but no way into the basement. "Damn it, where the hell is that door?" she growled.

"Kitchen," Anna replied. "It may be in the kitchen," she said and headed back to the door leading into the kitchen, which was also empty. The whole house was empty. No appliances. No furniture. Nothing. Everything was bare.

Scully followed Anna into the kitchen and there was the door to the basement. "Good observation, Anna," she said with a harried smile on her lips. She opened the door and looked down into the darkness. "Yup, it's flooded," she said and took a few steps down. The water level would probably reach up to her waist, maybe a little below, from what she could see in the darkness down there.

"Okay, so he's probably not down there, then," Anna said, looking uncertain.

Scully frowned down at the water, then nodded. "Probably not," she replied with a sigh and turned around.

* * *

**03.30 a.m.**

Mulder heard voices. Muffled, yet audible. The house had shook a little a moment before, which he hadn't liked at all because the water was rising faster than ever after that. It was halfway up his chest now. And now he heard voices. Using what little strength he had left, he tried to make himself heard, screaming into the duct tape.

* * *

**03.32 a.m.**

Scully was about to walk back up into the kitchen when she heard something. Stopping short, she tilted her head to the right and listened.

"Come on, Dana," Anna said, waving her up.

Scully raised a hand, hushing her to silence. "I heard something," she said, looking up at Anna with a frown.

"It's probably the water," Anna tried.

"No, there's somebody down there," Scully replied and turned back around. It was dark down there and the water looked cold. "Do you have your flashlight on you?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder.

"Uhm ... no, I don't. Look, Dana, there can't be anybody down there. The basement is flooded," Anna tried again, not happy about this. She hated dark basements.

"I heard something," Scully insisted. "Get me a flashlight, Anna."

Anna nodded and went in search of the requested item, hoping against hope that Scully wouldn't make her come down there with her. A childhood trauma where she had accidentally been locked up in a pitch-dark basement for several hours had left its mark.

She had to get a flashlight from one of the cops and it took her longer than she had anticipated. Scully was a bundle of nervous energy when she returned. "Here you go. But you're going down there on your own. I ..." she began, hoping that she could explain.

But Scully interrupted her by raising her hand, her back already turned. "Stay up here. Go get some of the others. I may need help," she replied and took the first step into the freezing water. She could hear the muffled, inarticulate cries ringing in her ears, drawing her down into the darkness.

* * *

Scully waded through the cold water, the flashlight held high, searching for the source of the sounds. A closed door was the only option she had. The water was up around her waist and she thought she could feel it rising. Reaching into the icy water, she grabbed the door handle and pushed the door open. One sweep with the flashlight revealed what she was looking for. "Oh my God," she exclaimed, then glanced back over her shoulder, yelling, "I NEED SOME HELP DOWN HERE."

* * *

Mulder stopped his efforts at reaching someone when he heard her voice. Feeling slightly ashamed, he realized that he was crying by the time she reached him, her hand reaching out to touch his face. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, grabbed a hold of the blindfold and removed it. "Jesus," she whispered, then gently caressed his cheek again. "Hold still. I'll try to get the duct tape off," she told him and started fiddling with the corners of the already ingrown tape.

Scully stared at his eyes, at the puffed-up, red skin and the suppuration, while she gently started peeling the duct tape from his mouth. Pieces of skin stuck to the tape and blood started to flow, but he made no sound to stop her. Eventually, she had removed it completely.

"Oh my God," she mumbled. "I'll get you out of here. I just need to . . ." she went on, reaching into the water to find out how he was tied down. In her effort, she struck the hilt of the knife imbedded in his thigh and he let out a harsh, pained cry.

Others were splashing through the water now, more flashlights bringing more light to the scene. "We need some tools to get him out. He's got a knife stuck in his left thigh," Scully said.

"And in my right side," he whispered hoarsely, cursing the fact that he could not open his eyes and look at her.

Scully nodded, completely balanced at the moment. Looking over at Meyers, who had turned up in the doorway, a stunned look on his face, she hoped he would know what to do. "We need to cut him loose. I think he's tied down with wires or something," she said.

"I'm on it," Meyers said, turned around and hollered for one of his men to bring a tool box. Then he turned to the rest of them already in the basement. "Who's good at diving?"

One man tentatively raised his hand.

"Okay, you go down and cut him free."

Glancing over at Scully, he eyed the cool-looking woman for a moment. "Are his legs tied, too?" he asked.

Scully glanced at Mulder, then down into the water and nodded.

"Okay, move it guys," Meyers called. Someone came down the stairs and within minutes, the young man who had volunteered for the task was under water, cutting Mulder free.

Scully grabbed Mulder's chin and forced him to focus on her although he couldn't see right now. "Mulder, listen to me. I'm going to remove the knives. If I don't, the minute you're no longer tied down, the water will carry you upward and that will make for a whole lot of pain. The temperature of this water is going to staunch the bleeding, so you don't have to worry about bleeding to death, okay?"

He nodded, not responding in any other way.

Scully ran the tips of her fingers over his cheek again. "It's okay. I'll get you out of here. The nightmare is over." With that, her fingers closed around the hilt of the stiletto imbedded in his right side and pulled it out. He paled considerably and passed out instantly. Scully sighed, then removed the second knife. "I think there's a wire around his chest, as well," she told the young man, who had just resurfaced.

"I got it," he told her, already shivering badly from the cold water. He found the wire and cut it. "There you go," he added with a quivering smile.

* * *

**08.30 a.m.  
August 12  
Room 1013  
Rockingham Memorial Hospital  
Harrisonburg**

He stirred to life, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings without being able to see them. His eyes were covered again and that set him off immediately. Hands grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back down on the bed when he tried to sit up. "Easy, Mulder. You're okay," he heard Scully's voice. The mere sound of that voice was enough to calm him down. His lips were sore. Come to think of it, everything hurt.

Scully brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. "It's okay. You're safe," she told him. His left hand searched for and found one of hers. Scully held it, wrapping both her hands around it. "You're okay," she repeated.

"My eyes," he managed after a moment, clearing his throat a few times.

"It's a minor chemical burn. The doctors say that there's probably not going to be any permanent damage, but that you should rest them as much as possible," Scully replied. "You had hypothermia when we brought you in. The stab wounds are not as bad as they may have felt." Turning his hand over, she looked down at his palm. "Do you have any feeling in your fingers?"

He shifted on the bed, then flexed his fingers slowly. "Yeah. How long have I been here?"

"Around thirty-two hours. Just take it easy. You'll be fine. They patched you up as soon as we got in. You haven't lost enough blood to warrant a transfusion, but you have to stay in the hospital a few days. No rushing out there too soon." Basically unaware that she was doing it, her thumb caressed the palm of his hand gently. "How do you feel in general?"

"Disoriented. What date is it?" Again clearing his throat he turned his head toward her. "I feel parched," he added in a near whisper.

Scully released his hand and reached out for a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. She pushed a hand under his head, helping him raise it a little. "Easy now. Sip it. The date's August 12," she told him, holding the glass of cool water to his lips.

He eased back down on the bed, frustrated that he couldn't see, but fighting the urge to remove the bandage. He could move. That mattered more than he would admit right now. And Scully was there. That was the only thing that really mattered. "I thought I was going to die," he confessed after a moment, groping for her hand again.

She grabbed it with both of hers, squeezing it lightly. "But you didn't," she replied.

He could almost hear the smile in her voice. "No. Once again, you saved my sorry behind," he replied with a weak grin. "But it's over now."

Scully heaved a deep breath, wondering. "I don't know," she said, aware that this might not be the right time to relight his fears.

"But I do. She told me. All her ... sisters as she called them are dead. And she died, too," he said. For once in his life, he had believed a stranger off hand. He didn't know why. Maybe it was important to his subconscious mind that he believed it. Maybe it was the truth.

Scully stared at him for a moment, her hands wrapped tightly around his. "So, she was the original. What else did she tell you? Did she let you know why she was doing this to you?"

That brought a frown to his face. "She said that I was important to the Consortium. And she was putting a spoke in their wheel by killing me. At least she believed that to be the truth," he mumbled, exhausted.

"But she died before she could kill you, then," Scully inserted, not quite able to follow him.

"Her plan was to disable me so I would die slowly. She said it was something about ... making me suffer the way she had suffered. She said it wasn't fair, but that somebody had to pay."

Scully made a face, concerned about his words. Why would anybody want to make him pay for somebody else's mistakes?


	9. Chapter 9

**August 13**

Scully sat on the chair beside the bed, watching as the doctor carefully removed the bandages covering Mulder's eyes. She held his hand and it was no great surprise to her, that his fingers were cramped around hers.

The doctor removed the two gauze patches and examined the skin around the eyes. "It looks good. Still a little red, but better than I'd hoped," he said. "Try to open your eyes, Mr. Mulder." Mulder complied, blinking heavily. "Can you see anything?"

"Yeah. But it's all a blur," Mulder replied.

"Now, that was to be expected. It will take a while for your eyes to readjust. As I could find no injuries on the cornea itself, I don't believe you have sustained any damage that won't heal up on its own. Give it a few hours. Your vision should be clear enough to distinguish dinner," the doctor said with a slight chuckle.

"In that case, put the patches back on," Mulder replied, a reply Scully would have expected from him. "One thing is to taste that stuff. Looking at it ... I don't know." He shook his head, smiling a little.

The doctor grinned at Scully, then looked back at Mulder. "How are you feeling in general?" he wanted to know.

"Well, except for a killer sideburn and the fact that my left leg spasms every time I try to move it, I feel fine," he replied, smiling ironically.

Scully watched him closely, looking for signs of how he really felt, but found that he seemed to be back on top. Shaking her head in wonder, she squeezed his hand briefly. "He's tough. He always pulls through," she inserted.

The doctor smiled at that. "Well, I'm always happy to have patients who don't get traumas from being locked up in wet cellars for a few days," he said, making a joke of it. "The stab wounds you have received are pretty straight forward. The cuts are clean, no tearing, which means they should heal up without too much trouble. Both are superficial wounds and have as such not affected anything vital. That's the good news."

Mulder hesitated. "What's the bad news?" he wanted to know.

"You'll have to suffer through our dinners for a few more days," the doctor replied. "I'll check back on you later today. Don't try anything funny while I'm out, okay?" He padded Mulder's shoulder with a grin, turned around and walked out.

"He's a hoot," Mulder commented after the door had closed.

"Yeah," Scully agreed, eyeing him closely. His eyes were watering, but in general they seemed okay. "Maybe you should lie down and close your eyes again. Just to rest them a little more."

He complied almost at once. With Scully's help, he lowered the head of the bed and closed his eyes again. During all this time, he hadn't released her hand and he kept thinking about the promises he had made himself while he had waited for a rescue which he had actually thought would never come.

He felt like a million bugs right now. Despite the pain from his side and his leg and the tingling feeling in his hands and the fact that he still couldn't see straight, he felt on top of the world. It was as if this last experience had lifted a weight from his shoulders he hadn't realized was there in the first place. What it meant and why he didn't know. He just knew that at this very moment, he had never wanted to live more desperately. Perhaps it was because his most dire wish had been answered.

"Scully?" He ran the tip of his tongue over his chapped lips for a moment, then turned to the blur he identified as her.

"Yeah?" she replied, wondering if he was about to break down, but saw no sigh of it.

"Thanks," he said, his tone of voice displaying an emotional storm within. "Thank you for being there for me. You don't know what that means to me."

Smiling, she rose from her chair and pecked him on the cheek. "Yes, I do," she claimed. "And you're welcome. Besides, you don't have to thank me for this. After all, isn't that what friends are for?" She sat back down again, both her hands wrapped around his.

"I guess. But, then again, how would I know? I'm the one who doesn't have any friends, right?" he replied, sounding a little more mellow than she had ever heard him before.

"Well, you've got one," she told him.

"Make that two," a voice inserted from the door way.

Scully looked over to meet Skinner's stare for a moment. Then she smiled.

"How are you feeling, agent Mulder?" he wanted to know.

Mulder turned his head toward his boss, but could still make out very little through the watery blur. "Oh, you know me, sir. I'll survive," he replied, his tone of voice a little strained as he shifted himself a little on the bed. The wound on his right side was giving him a little trouble when he tried to move.

"Well, that's good to hear," Skinner said. "Although we've got a new profiler who's almost as good as you," he added with a weak smile.

"Really?" Mulder replied, looking surprised. "Maybe I can retire, then," he added.

"And what would you do with yourself if you retired, Mulder?" Skinner wanted to know, giving Scully a saying glance. "Anyway, take the time you need to back on your feet and, hopefully, we'll see you back at the office soon. Just take it easy." Turning to leave, he remembered one thing he had to say and turned back again. "By the way, there are two guards posted outside your room here and we can assign a twenty-four hour watch-shift . . ." he began, but Mulder cut him off.

"That won't be necessary. They're all gone," he said, blinking a couple of times and getting a less muddled picture out of it.

Skinner frowned. "Are you sure?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, I'm sure. She was the only one left and she died." The memory of her final words, of what she had told him, put a damper on his mood. "There's no need to waste other agents' time with this. I'm in the clear now."

"Well, if you say so," Skinner said reluctantly. "Scully, could I have a word with you outside?"

She nodded, padded Mulder's hand and got up. "I'll be right back."

Mulder acknowledged this with a nod, well aware of why Skinner wanted to talk to her alone. She was being told to keep an eye on him. With a weak smile, he realized that it would fit in with his desires quite nicely.

Out in the corridor, Scully closed the door behind her and turned to face her supervisor.

"Scully, I want you to keep an eye on him. If you need to stay with him for twenty-four hours a day, do it. He may think he's in the clear, but I'm not willing to take any chances. And you know what his colleagues think about him. Getting them to look after him is like asking a blind man to look after little kids."

Scully nodded. "I figured as much, sir. But you must be aware that he knows why you wanted to see me alone. And knowing him, he'll give me the slip as soon as he's up to it," she said, hoping to make her boss understand that keeping an eye on Mulder was a difficult task at best.

Skinner's expression tightened a bit. "Then put him on a leash. Handcuff him to you if you have to. I don't care. For the next month, you're his backup in everything he does. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Scully replied, not happy about being assigned this duty. Mainly because she knew Mulder and his ability to disappear at any given time. "I'll do my best," she added.

Skinner nodded. "That's all I ask. Just don't lose him," he said, turned around and walked away.

Scully watched him go, then sighed and returned to the room. Dropping back down on the chair, she looked up at Mulder for a moment. "You know, we've got to talk," she told him. "Skinner has just assigned me the wonderful duty of keeping a close eye on you for the next month. And I swear to God, Mulder, if you give me the slip at any time ... if you ditch me, I'm going to shoot you in the leg just to keep you in line. Do you understand me? I'm not going to be yelled at because you think I'm not up to whatever you're after." There was seriousness and exasperation in her voice.

Mulder blinked, his vision getting steadily better, and gave her wry smile. Not too wide, though. His lips were not yet up to it. "Don't worry, Scully. I'll be a good boy," he promised, content in the knowledge that he was no longer at risk of running into any vengeful females. At least none of the shape-shifting kind.

* * *

**08.30 a.m.  
August 14  
The Consortium Lodge  
46th Street  
New York**

The Cigarette-Smoking Man looked up, once again being disturbed by one of his aides. The same woman who had come to him nearly ten days ago with that disturbing piece of news. She leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Things are taken care of. She died on her own. Agent Mulder is back. A bit battered, but all right. His partner is looking after him for now."

Smiling, he nodded. "Good," he replied in a low tone of voice. "Let's keep it that way for now. Keep an eye on him. Discreetly, of course. And report back to me if anything happens."

The woman nodded and left again. The Cigarette-Smoking Man leaned back in his chair, content that all was back in order, and continued to study the newspaper. He was being an instrument in keeping Mulder safe for now and found that a much more gratifying duty than any other he had performed in a long while. Things would work out all right in the end.

* * *

**10.45 a.m.  
J. Edgar Hoover building  
Washington D.C.**

Anna Krycek had been commended by A.D. Skinner for her excellent work and had then been sent back to the VCS. She glanced at her watch, switched her computer off and got up from behind her desk in the open-plan office. "Janie," she called over to one of her colleagues. "I'm going to lunch," she added and walked briskly out of the office.

When she stepped out onto the street, she briefly considered that maybe she should look Dana up one of these days and talk a bit more with her. She liked Dana Scully. But, on the other hand, Dana might ask her a question she couldn't afford to answer. Better leave it alone, she thought and headed toward a row of payphones. She had barely reached the last one in the row before it rang. Smiling softly, she picked up. "Hello?" The smile widened. "Hi, honey. How's Moscow?"


End file.
